To Watch Over Her
by S. Faith
Summary: Mark's Achilles heel makes a very fine target for threats…. Movie universe, plus the return of an original character.
1. Part 1 of 3

**To Watch Over Her**

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 23,144 (this part: 8,410)

Rating: M / R

Summary: Mark's Achilles heel makes a very fine target for threats…

Disclaimer: _looks at bank balance_ Still not mine.

Notes: Because she is, really. And, it's an excuse to visit an old friend.

* * *

_Your passion for this cause is admirable._  
_However, if you don't drop it on your own, we'll give you a reason to drop it._  
_It would be a shame if something should happen to that lovely wife of yours._  
_The choice is yours and yours alone._  
_Bring the police in on it and we'll make the choice for you._  
_We are watching you both._

Mark blinked, then blinked again, trying to comprehend what he was reading, because it couldn't be what it seemed to be.

A threat. A threat against Bridget.

He then realised there was a second piece of paper—more to the point, a photograph—and when he fixed his eyes upon it, he knew it was no mistake:

It was a photograph of Bridget, standing in their bedroom; it had clearly been taken with a telephoto lens through the parted curtains of their room, and the angle indicated it might have been shot from a house across the street at the same level. It was obvious she was just out of the shower, clad only in a towel and running her fingers through her dampened locks.

Mark was equal parts infuriated and terrified at being violated in such a manner; to conceive that someone had been watching her covertly (or worse, watching _them_) in the privacy of their home, even their bedroom; to have the woman he loved beyond all measure threatened with harm just to get him to cease working on a case of such importance.

There was no way he would give up on it.

There was also no way he would let any harm come to Bridget.

Reason kicked in and with shaking hands he gingerly set down the envelope, letter and photograph. Despite the warning, they would have to be dusted for prints, checked for DNA, when he got Bridget out of harm's way.

He strode the length and breadth of his office, pacing from his desk and back, running his hands over his hair. There was no question of secreting Bridget away for the near future. He was certain he was on the cusp of a breakthrough, and this letter, this threat, seemed proof positive. He could not stop now, not when he was so close.

The only question was where, and with whom, despite the fight she was sure to put up over it. He did not want to have to completely scare her into compliance with the photograph (as that would have opened up a whole other hysterical can of worms). He would brook no opposition, though, and he needed someone he could trust to keep an eye on her. She would not be happy to be secluded for the two weeks necessary to draw this unsavoury business to an end, and he had to be sure that whomever she stayed with would (and could) not only baby-sit her, but keep her well hidden.

His own parents were unsuitable, as were hers. They were far too easy to find, and the four of them, his own mother especially, were not particularly good at standing up to Bridget's iron will, especially when she wanted something really badly.

Her friends were equally out of the question. All one of them would have to do is bring home a few bottles of Chardonnay and she'd sneak out when the others got plastered.

As much as he hated to think of it, as much as he hated to even ask another person to become involved, he realised there was only really one good choice for this matter.

His uncle, Nick Wentworth.

He picked up his phone and dialled.

"Yes?" came the gruff voice on the other end.

He knew he couldn't discuss this over the phone, in case the "we are watching" included surveillance on the phones. "It's Mark. Are you free for lunch?"

"Lunch? You want me to come all the way to town for lunch?" he asked with a laugh. "I suppose. What's got you so fired up?"

"It's Bridget's birthday coming up," he lied wildly, "and I wanted to discuss plans for the party."

There was silence on the other end of the phone. It was June, and Mark hoped with all of his being that Nick remembered Bridget's birthday was in November. "I see," he said coolly at long last. "Where would you like to meet?"

Mark sighed with relief. Nick had understood. "The usual place is fine, just 'round the corner from Inns of Court."

"I'll be there in an hour." Nick disconnected.

………

True to his word, his uncle appeared at the door of the pub in precisely an hour, and took a seat before the glass of scotch Mark had at the ready. "What is this all about, boy?" he asked, partly irritated, partly worried.

Mark had no idea how to begin, so he came right out with it: "I've had a threat."

Surprisingly, Nick smirked, then picked up his scotch and drew in a sip. "Surely you get those all the time in your line of work."

"Not 'all the time', but never against Bridget." Mark reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the copy of the letter he'd made. As Nick read, Mark swore his colour drained.

"When did this come?" he asked gruffly.

"This morning."

"Postmarked?"

"Don't recall that it was."

"'Don't recall'?" he asked in a hiss, bringing his fist down hard against the table. "Mark, this is serious."

"Don't think I'm not aware of that," Mark replied. "The envelope and the original letter are safely stored in a brown manilla packet, as is the photo."

"Photo?"

"Yes. Of Bridget. Just out of the shower. I have every intention of taking them to the police as soon as Bridget's safely hidden away."

"Christ," said Nick, running his hand over his face.

"This is why I called you," said Mark. "I need your help. I need to have Bridget stay with you. You're out of London, your name isn't directly associated with either mine or Bridget's maiden name."

"What does she say about this?"

"She has no say in this. It's not up for debate."

Nick laughed again. "Yes, I'm sure she'll put up no resistance whatsoever."

"I don't care," said Mark. "Will you do it?"

"Of course," replied Nick without hesitation.

"Even though you know she won't give you a moment's peace."

Nick grinned evilly. "Even though."

Mark was sure Nick had vivid memories of their sequestration in his own home during that dark time when he'd been accused of accepting bribes and tampering with legal procedure and evidence. Despite that all, he was keenly aware that it was Nick who'd always known where Bridget was.

"You actually going to order lunch?" said Nick after a moment.

"Stomach's too nervous to eat," said Mark. "I'd prefer to get on to getting Bridget off to your house."

"Right." He took in the last of his scotch, then explained, "Fortifications for battle."

………

"No. I won't go."

Just as expected.

"Bridget, this is serious."

"I think you're overreacting."

"You always think he's overreacting," cut in Nick. "Even if we are, what's the harm in erring on the side of caution? It's only for a couple of weeks."

"A couple of _weeks_?" she said, horrified. "What if you're in danger too? Shouldn't I be by your side?"

"They're not threatening me because they know I'm not intimidated by threats."

"This has happened before?" she said incredulously.

He waved his hand. "It's not important."

"Mark! I'm definitely not going!"

"The time will be over before you know it," said Nick.

Mark engaged her eyes. "Bridget," he said darkly. "You'll go with Nick, I'll get the case over and done with, and you can come home."

It seemed a battle of wills, their gazes locked. There must have been something about the intensity of his stare that communicated the seriousness of the situation, because at last she sighed. "Fine."

"Get your bag together, and you can go with Nick right now."

"Now?"

"When did you think?"

She sighed petulantly, but he noticed there were tears in her eyes as she cast them downward. Nick must have noticed, too, for he quietly cleared his throat and slipped out into the hallway.

"I'll miss you terribly," she said sadly, her fingers twisting around themselves nervously.

"I know, darling. I'll miss you too." He stepped forward, sliding his fingers down the length of her arm before grasping to pull her close, pressing a kiss into the hair at her temple. "The time will be over before you know it," he said, echoing his uncle.

"You'll come and see me often?"

"Bridget, I won't be able to come out there. If I'm followed they'll be able to find you."

She pulled away sharply and looked even more crestfallen than she did before. "Mark, no." At that she actually began to cry.

He pulled her close again, cradling the back of her head with his hand. "I'm sorry. If there were any other way…"

"Can't I just stay at home like last time? And why not my parents? Why Nick?"

He sighed, thinking of the photo, thinking how if a camera could see into their bedroom, a rifle sight could just as easily do so. "I wish that you could just stay at home, but this situation's a little different. I can trust your security to Nick, trust you will not be found… and I know that he can handle you," he said in an attempt at levity; it worked as he saw a small smile play on her lips as he looked down to her. He then added, "I have to work, concentrate, focus on this case, and I can't do that if I'm also worried about you."

Her arms snaked around him and held tight. "But I'll be so worried for _you_," she said, sobbing into his lapels.

"I'll be fine. I promise you. They're not looking to hurt me, because if they do the case is even stronger. No, they know a more effective threat is one aimed at the one person in this world I love most. You."

Her sobbing strengthened, her embrace tightened, but he could feel her nodding. She said after a few minutes, "I'm sure you're right, but I can't help but worry. I don't like to think I'll never get to hold you again."

"Believe me, love," he said tenderly, "the thought plagues me." Gently Mark pulled himself away from her, wiping his thumb under her eye to brush away her tears. "Now come on and pack your bag. Whatever you forget Nick can pick up for you, if you're a very good girl," he said with a smile.

She sniffed then chuckled, punching him in the arm. Her smile faded, though, and she said, "Two weeks. I can be strong for two weeks."

He took her face in his hands and kissed her in the centre of her forehead. He wasn't sure he actually believed it, but he said it anyway: "I know you can."

When he pulled away again, the smile on her teary face was beautiful to see. He spent many moments looking at her, memorising every feature, every freckle, every little line. He wondered if what he was doing was obvious, because she laughed lightly, then teased, "Take a picture. It'll last longer."

He laughed out loud, then drew her to him to kiss her properly.

It wasn't until he was ushering Bridget and Nick out the back door that he thought it might just be the longest two weeks of his life.

………

It was going to be the longest two weeks of his life, or at least the longest hour and a half drive.

That was the thought racing through Nick's mind as he glanced over to Bridget, who was sulking and staring out of the window as they drove out to his place in Cambridge.

"My friends are going to worry," said Bridget. "I didn't even get to call anyone, and they can't call me."

"I've already explained, Bridget. Your mobile can be tracked by satellite. It had to be left behind."

She sighed.

"I'm sure Mark will let your friends know you haven't been abducted by aliens."

She pouted, folding her arms across her chest. "What can I possibly do for a couple of weeks out in Cambridge?" She gasped, turning to him. "What about _work_?"

"I'm sure Jen—Ms Wolford—will understand you'll need to work offsite. You've done it before," reminded Nick.

The reminder of his association with her boss caused her to smile when nothing else had that day. "You still seeing her?"

He cleared his throat. "I don't wish to discuss this right now."

"Aha!" she said, pointing at him accusingly. "You are."

He fought to hide a smirk at her interest in his love life, and said in his sternest voice, "Stop distracting me or I'll miss the juncture."

She fell silent again, but still had a residual smile on her face.

………

They were practically in the bloody country, just as Mark would have preferred, thought Bridget, though she had to admit the place was quite pretty. It was a respectably sized home for a bachelor, a country cottage of brick and wood with rose bushes peppered around the property, enclosed with a stone fence for privacy.

He stopped the car then turned to her. "Stay put," he commanded. She bristled. She hoped she wouldn't have to spend the next fortnight being bossed around by Mark's uncle. After rising from the car he walked forward and open the wooden gate. He drove just far enough to clear the gate on the inside, then got out again to close it again.

"I could have done that for you," she said.

"Nonsense," he said. "Besides, I don't want anyone to see you."

She made a dismissive sound. "Who the bloody hell is going to see me out here?"

"Don't argue with me, child," said Nick.

The garage door lifted just in time for Nick to pull the car into the bay, then came down once more. The light came on and Nick rose from the car. "Well, we're here," he said without fanfare.

"Hurrah," she said listlessly, rising from the passenger seat and standing near the boot to fetch her suitcases out. The boot swung up and Nick rapidly swooped in to grab them.

"Come on, I'll show you to your room."

They went up the stairs to the house, and after unlocking the door he reached in and switched on the light. They walked a little further, through a laundry area, before opening a second door, switching on a second light, to reveal Nick's kitchen. It was about what she might have expected: enormous with lots of preparation space, a gas hob, an oven, and a full-sized refrigerator. "It's beautiful!" breathed Bridget.

"I'm glad you approve," said Nick.

Suddenly, from what seemed like very far away, she heard a voice—a female voice—call out: "Nick! What took you so long?"

Nick froze in place. Bridget had never witnessed him look quite so horrified. The foreign expression was gone in a snap as he turned to Bridget, setting down her bags. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

"Who is that?" she asked incredulously.

"No one," Nick replied, shooting up to the main level of the house.

As curious as she was, she dared not risk his wrath. Bridget could only hear muffled voices and footsteps. Within a few minutes he heard a door shut—large and wooden, by the sound of it—then Nick returned to the kitchen.

"Come, Bridget. Your room," he said evenly, though his colour was still rather high, retrieving her bags again.

Bridget was beyond curious. "Who was that?" she asked excitedly.

"Never you mind," he said, leading her out of the kitchen.

"Uncle Nick," said Bridget, "you know I'm not going to rest until I get an answer, so let's save ourselves a lot of time and annoyance and just tell me whose voice that was."

Nick stopped so quickly she nearly walked into him, then turned around to face her. "If you must know," he said, his gaze as dark and as penetrating as anything Mark could deliver, "she is a woman I have been casually seeing."

Bridget frowned. "What about Jen? You said—"

"I said it was not something I wished to discuss."

"Okay, fine," said Bridget, feeling slightly indignant and hurt on her boss' behalf. "It didn't work out with Jen. Then why didn't you introduce me to her?"

Nick looked upwards, as if to the heavens for guidance and strength. "For starters, your presence here is supposed to be a secret. She is also…" He paused to consider his words. "She is not someone who will likely be a part of your future."

Bridget's mouth fell open in surprise of its own accord. "Are you saying she's… a 'just for now' girl?"

"A what?" he asked.

"A 'just for now' girl. Someone you're not serious enough about to buy presents and think about a future with."

"Bridget, dear child," he said, with a surprising chuckle, "I never claimed to be a saint." With that he turned again and continued walking. "Besides. Jen and I remain… good friends."

"So what's her name?"

"Is that really important? It's not as if you will be sending her a Christmas card."

"She has a nice voice," continued Bridget. "What does she look like? And oh! How is it that she got in? Does she have a key? That's pretty serious-sounding!" She then gasped. "Oh my God. Did Mark interrupt a—"

She stopped herself before she actually said the word 'shagathon', but he seemed to know where she was going with her line of questioning. He merely sighed patiently, then set down her suitcases. "Here's your room. You can get to your bathroom through that door, or through the hallway."

The room was such that Bridget had to fight the urge to burst out laughing: white and Spartan with nothing more than a single bed, a bureau, a nightstand, and a chair with a high back that looked horribly uncomfortable. It was something out of the Holland Park house prior to Bridget's moving in. She couldn't help but wonder if he and Mark had had the same decorator, if this taste in interior design was somehow genetically inheritable, or both. "Thank you," was the most she could offer. She was, after all, a terrible liar. "Where's _your_ room?"

"Next to yours, at the end of the hall."

She pouted. "If you want your… well, if you want me to I can stay in my room, quiet as a mouse, if you want to… finish things up."

"Bridget, she's gone home," he said dangerously, an expression of distaste on his features. "Enough."

"Fine, fine," she said, relenting at last. "Just thought I'd offer."

Seemingly ignoring her, he said, "Dinner will be at six. I will get in touch with Jen and let her know you're here with me, and I'll send your work to her."

"But my laptop—"

"—will not have internet access," he said with finality.

She sighed heavily. She had been counting on Mark and Nick to forget about that technology, to keep a lifeline to the outside world. "This is like being in prison." _Worse than prison_, she thought; _at least there I'd get conjugal visits._

"I'd wager the food's a lot better," quipped Nick.

She could not remember the last time she'd felt so morose. Exiled from her home and from the man she loved, forced to spend time in the country with his uncle, whom she loved and was sure loved her in return but clearly did not like her invading his domain.

"Child, what is it?" she heard Nick ask.

"What?"

"I know you're not thrilled to be here but you look like you're about to cry. If you're worried about Mark, I know he can take care of—"

"No," she said, interrupting him. "I mean, I am worried about Mark, but… I'm just so sorry to have to bother you like this… ruin your, er, time with your girlfriend, invade your house for two interminable weeks…."

To her surprise, he reached forward and drew her into his arms for a consoling hug. "Bridget, there are more important things than, as you put it, time with a girlfriend. You are family to me." He squeezed his embrace, then pulled away with a smile. "Besides, after all of the times you've had me as a guest," he continued in a light tone, "it's only proper I reciprocate." If his intent was to make her chuckle, it worked. In a more serious vein, he continued, his steely eyes engaging her own, "I'm glad to have you here, so I'll have no more of that. Am I understood?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful," he said. Clapping his hands together, he said, "Well, you should know your way around your home, albeit a temporary one. Let me show you around."

Up there on the second floor, at the end of the hall by the stairs, there was another guest bedroom, similarly decorated; however, this one was bigger and had a double bed, which made Bridget wonder why she had been relegated to the room with the single bed.

"Why can't I have this room?" asked Bridget.

"Too far away," he replied drolly, pointing to the door at the opposite end of the hallway, presumably the door to his own room. "If you and Mark ever come to stay with me, then you can have the big room."

She made a distinct sound of disappointment.

They then headed downstairs, and he took her straight to the library. Unsurprisingly it was well-stocked, with the expected number of legal tomes, but a good variety of other books, classic literature as well as popular classics. The dark wood and leather-bound volumes reminded her of Mark's library and she was momentarily wistful. "You're welcome to work in here," Nick said, "but if you need a cigarette, go elsewhere."

"Thanks," said Bridget.

He took her next to the sitting room, then showed her the downstairs loo, pointed to his office door, and circled back to the kitchen. "Well. I'll be in here. You're welcome to join me, take a nap, read a book… just don't leave the house."

She sighed. "Yes, Uncle Nick."

"And I'd prefer if you stayed out of the windows, too."

"What? Why?"

"Well, I don't need the neighbours to see you and start asking questions or circulating gossip. They'd certainly talk about seeing a pretty girl a generation too young for me in the window."

At that she chuckled. "Presumably at some point you'll take me for a walk so I can get some fresh air like some kind of puppy dog."

"I'll let you out in the backyard in the evenings," he said jokingly. "All right. I have to get to work."

She stayed with him, taking a seat at the kitchen table, watching him cut up chicken breasts, but her thoughts were miles away in London. What was this case that Mark was involved with that had someone so nervous they were threatening her own safety? Was he really in no danger? Oh, she wished desperately that she could call him, if only to hear his reassuring voice again.

"Uncle Nick, may I…?" she began, hesitating.

"You may do anything you like," he replied, not looking up.

Disbelieving her ears, she popped up off of the chair, then headed for the telephone. As her hand was about to come down on the receiver she heard his booming voice: "Except for that."

She froze. "What?"

"Bridget, you can't make phone calls, especially not to Mark. You should know better. If they're tapping his phone, they'll be able to track you down."

"But…"

"No buts. You cannot compromise your safety, end of story. Sit down and you can tell me your favourite dishes so I'll know what to make while you're here."

"I'd murder for a pizza," she grumbled, sulkily taking a seat at the table again.

Nick chuckled. "I can't change my habits that drastically. Ordering delivery pizza would surely raise some eyebrows."

"Chinese takeaway?"

"Bridget," he said with some emphasis.

"I'm going to go absolutely mental," she said, then added, "no offense meant to you."

"None taken." He was now chopping little green things.

_Well_, she thought, _might as well sit with Nick. Not like there's anything else to do._

………

Nick was mincing the last of the green onions and was about to start in on the mushrooms when he glanced up and saw that Bridget had dozed off, sitting there at the table. He smiled. He truly did not mind her company or the responsibility because he knew he could keep her in line, though he didn't expect her complaisance to last for long. He had to admit though that he was mortified that his, as Bridget had so eloquently put it, 'just for now' girl had not actually dressed and gone home as he'd asked her to. There were some things, evidence of his being a mere mortal man, he liked to keep to himself; the very thought of Bridget residing in the next room whilst he indulged in carnal pleasures rather appalled him.

He pulled out the broiling pan, fired up the oven then placed the chicken breasts in neat rows in the pan. He drizzled olive oil over them, then sprinkled green onion and the mushroom on them, as well as some crushed garlic before pushing the pan into the oven.

Anticipating needing something to make Bridget smile later, he pulled out the mixing bowl, the whisk, the heavy cream, dark chocolate powder and sugar, and got to work on dessert.

He had just gotten the mousse portioned out into dessert bowls and into the refrigerator when he heard movement. As he expected, Bridget had awakened.

"I told you that you could take a nap, but I didn't expect it would be in here," he said dryly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to doze off, but—oh my God! What is that heavenly smell?"

"Dinner," he said. "Would you care for salad or fried potatoes with the chicken?"

"Ooo, I get to choose? Hm." She brought her fingers thoughtfully to her chin. "Potatoes, please."

Dinner was not one of his finest achievements, but Bridget seemed to like it well enough, and the look on her face when he presented the mousse, complete with chocolate shavings on the top, made him feel a sense of triumph.

"That was delicious," she said, licking the spoon after the final mouthful. "Hope I don't gain as much weight as I did the last time you cooked for us." She put the spoon down, looking momentarily sad again. He suspected she was thinking of her husband.

"I'm sure Mark is fine," offered Nick.

Bridget smiled. "I'm not convinced you can't read minds," she said wistfully. Sighing, she rose with her bowl, and came towards Nick to gather his, but she surprised him with a peck on the cheek. "Thank you so much. For everything."

He allowed a subtle smile. "Of course, dear child."

She took the bowls and loaded them into the dishwasher, then sighed again. "Don't feel like reading or, ugh, working. Maybe I can watch the telly?" she asked hopefully.

"I was thinking," said Nick, "we might engage in something more mentally challenging."

She looked apprehensive. "Like what?"

"A nice game of chess."

Bridget burst out laughing.

"Why is that so amusing?"

"I can't play, and I can't think of a more frustrating experience for you—for both of us—than trying to teach me."

"Nonsense. I'll have you beating me within the week."

Sceptical did not begin to describe her expression. "I can't remember all of those manoeuvres."

"The trick is to learn whilst playing, not try to give you a lesson then expecting you to remember it all. It's complex but you're bright enough to grasp it."

She beamed. "Well. I guess we could try."

………

So this was what it was like before Bridget was in his life.

The house seemed cavernous, and the quiet cast a deathly pall over the place. Mark had work to do yet found himself distracted by the sense that he was missing something.

Which, of course, he was.

He managed to focus long enough to prepare for court the next day, but when he got upstairs, saw Bridget's side of the bed unmade, her clothes on the bed, her bureau drawers hanging open—as if she might appear from out of the bathroom at any moment—he swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

It was for the best. He knew it. The time would be over soon and she'd be back. As necessary as this was for her own safety, the first few days and nights without her—not only without her there to hold and console him after a gruelling day's work, but with absolutely no contact whatsoever, not even the comfort of the sound of her voice—were going to be very difficult.

As he sunk to sit on the bed, he knew he would have to think of her safety above all else, and getting to the end of this trial, with his grand reward being to welcome her back home with open arms and fervent kisses.

A smile formed on his face when he looked over towards her side of the bed and spotted the teddy bear he'd bought for her when he'd thought she was sick; he recalled the bear's name was Shaggy. He was surprised she hadn't taken him along, as she was fond of mentioning how much she loved snuggling up to the soft, squishy bear when Mark was out of town for the evening.

The smile turned into a grin. He reached over and grabbed the bear, held it close and inhaled, taking the faint scent of her in. He would have to rectify this oversight as soon as possible, but knew instantly he couldn't send Shaggy alone.

He immediately headed back for his office, to his desk, though for a much different purpose than the case. The words flowed without much thought and before he knew it he'd filled up an entire sheet. He reread it and, satisfied with the result, he folded it neatly, heading back to the bedroom. He then went to Bridget's nightstand, opened the drawer, and found a suitable safety pin. He was about to pin the note to Shaggy's chest when he was inspired by another idea:

He set the note and the pin down on his own nightstand, then disrobed and otherwise prepared to go to bed. He slipped between the sheets, leaving the chaos of her side of the bed, of her bureau, just as it was, then pulled the bear close to his chest. He closed his eyes, comforted again by her lingering fragrance, and fell to sleep hoping that a single evening could infuse Shaggy with enough of his own to comfort her in turn.

………

The sun managed to find the one gap between the drapes and poke Bridget right square in the eyes, and for a moment she was completely confused as to where she was and why the bed was so small. It then all came back to her in a rush: Mark, the threat, Nick, seclusion in Cambridge, and… chess. At the last one, she grinned. She'd done pretty well for herself on her first game with Nick, even if she was being prompted the entire time by him.

She pushed back the sheets and looked around, was puzzled by the fact that there seemed to not be a clock anywhere in the room. She thought it was probably early, because she doubted Nick would allow her to sleep too long, so she turned over and tried to go back to sleep.

It was no use. Within minutes she kicked the sheets back, got out of bed, and headed for the bathroom, her toiletries case in her hand. She went into the linen closet and pulled out a pair of fresh towels, then proceeded to brush her teeth then shower.

It was halfway through her shower—after shampooing, but before rinsing the conditioner out—that it occurred to her that she had locked her connecting door out of habit, and had brought neither a change of clothes nor a robe with her into the bathroom. She carried on, figuring a towel wrapped around herself would have to suffice for the five seconds she'd be in the hallway.

She did not expect, however, to hear a shriek upon exiting the bathroom.

Nearly jumping out of her skin, Bridget turned to see a fairly plain-looking brown-haired woman carrying a basket of what she presumed to be dirty laundry.

"Oh my God! Who are you?" asked Bridget.

"I might well ask the same," said the woman, apparently offended by Bridget's very presence. "I come to clean the house twice a week. Mr Wentworth said his niece was staying, but he said nothing about a new lady friend!"

Bridget began to laugh at the absurdity of it, confusing the housekeeper. Bridget then explained, "I _am_ his niece. By marriage."

The woman's features softened. "Oh. I do beg your pardon. The way he spoke of you, I was expecting a… child." She set the basket on one hip then extended out her hand. "I'm Mary."

"Bridget," she replied, ensuring her towel was secure before reaching to shake the woman's hand. "I'm sorry I frightened you."

"It's all right." She shifted her basket again. "Have you any laundry?"

"Ooo, yes, thank you!" She went back into her room and gathered up a bundle of clothing to add to the smalls and pyjamas she had brought back with her from her shower. "Don't suppose you'll have any trouble figuring out what's mine and what's not."

"I daresay not," said Mary, fighting a smirk. "Mr Wentworth was baking muffins when I arrived. I'm sure the chocolate chip ones are on your account."

Crikey. She'd be so huge when she saw Mark again he wouldn't recognise her. "Thank you. I'll get dressed then head straight down."

After dressing she dashed down the stairs, locks still dripping wet, and the smell of the muffins combined with brewing coffee made her mouth instantly water.

"Good morning, my dear," he said, seated at the table with a half-eaten muffin, a mug of coffee, one finished crossword and another beneath his poised pen. "Hope you slept well."

"Marvellously." She took a muffin—still warm to the touch!—then poured herself coffee in the mug he'd clearly left there for her.

"I've left the arts section of the paper for you there," he said, obliquely nodding to where it sat in front of an empty chair. "Celebrity gossip, theatre reviews, and what-not."

"Thank you," she said, pouring cream into her coffee, then stirring in three spoonfuls of sugar. She went to the table, pecked him on the cheek then sat down, taking a bite out of the muffin and a sip of the coffee. She sighed with delight. "Fantastic as always."

He made a little sound that she had come to recognise as an embarrassed sort of thank you, still focused on the crossword.

After reading about the latest offerings in the West End, drinking her coffee and polishing off not one but three muffins—_GAH!_—she rose from the table and stretched. "I'm going to go and get my laptop. I'll be in the library."

"Very well. I'll be in my office as soon as I'm through here."

She padded back up the stairs and into her room, found that Mary had already made her bed for her. She grinned, grabbed the laptop bag, then headed back down to the library.

After setting herself up on the table there, she stared at the screen and realised she had no idea what to write about. _If only I had internet_, she thought woefully, until she noticed the icon indicating a wireless network had been detected blinking in the corner of her screen.

She smiled maniacally, and brought up the control panel to connect.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Nick was a step ahead of her, or overly security-conscious, as the network required a password that she did not have.

_Bugger._

She blew impatient air between her teeth and sat back in her seat petulantly. It really was going to be a long two weeks.

………

Nick stared at his computer screen, pleased with the latest addition to his article for the law journal. Consulting with his outline, he saw he was ahead of schedule, and grinned triumphantly. The home stretch, as his American comrades would say. He stood and extended his arms up over his head, deciding to go to the kitchen for another cup of coffee and have a cigarette.

As he was leaving the office, he heard a knock at the front door, repeated and firm. Furrowing his brows, he went to the door. "Who's there?"

"Courier service. Delivery for Mr Wentworth."

Suspicious, he asked, "From whom?"

"Inns of Court, London."

He wasn't expecting anything from Inns of Court. Unless…

Nick threw open the door, found he was faced with a young man, probably mid-twenties, thin as a beanpole and a shock of red hair. "I'll take that. Thank you, boy."

"Sign here, please?" he asked, obviously intimidated by Nick.

"If I must." Nick took the clipboard and scrawled his name on the line the delivery boy indicated. "Good day."

It was a box, and for its size it was not particularly heavy. He couldn't imagine what Mark could be sending. He tore apart the brown paper and found an envelope taped to the top of the box beneath the paper. It was addressed to himself, so he opened it.

It was indeed from Mark, explaining that the contents of the box were for Bridget, that he had no objection to Nick staying for her opening it, and that in fact he might want to be there to lend a shoulder after she saw what was in there. "I had to smuggle it out of the house in a garment bag," Mark explained in his missive, "and now Rebecca's going to box it up for me and send it out. Such subterfuge. But I don't think anyone will guess this was anything but yet another box leaving the office for delivery."

Nick set the letter down from Mark and walked with the box to where he knew Bridget was working in the library. He walked in and stopped dead in his tracks.

Bridget was playing solitaire on the computer.

"Bridget, I thought you were working!" he barked. She jumped in her seat.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't think of what to write about, so I took a little break." She turned and saw Nick with the box in his hands. "What's that?"

"This, as it turns out, is for you." He set it down on the table beside her.

"Me?" It then seemed to occur to her the only other person who knew where she was. "Oh!" She jumped up and attacked the box with some ferocity, finally working her way through the tape. The contents, a great, fuzzy teddy bear, puzzled Nick greatly, but upon seeing it, Bridget burst into tears. "Shaggy!" She pulled it up out of the box and held it close to her. "Oh, it smells like him…" she said tremulously.

Nick put his hand on her shoulder.

"What the—" She held the bear away and it was then she (and Nick) saw a note pinned to its chest. With trembling fingers she undid the pin, unfolded the note and read it. Nick looked away, not wanting to even inadvertently read the private message between husband and wife.

Nick didn't think it possible her sobs could intensify, but whatever Mark had written had certainly caused them to. With the note pressed between her and the bear, she embraced it with all her might.

"Are you all right?" he asked her tenderly, squeezing the hand on her shoulder for comfort.

"Aside from missing Mark more than ever… I'm just fine."

Nick had considered a lecture on getting to work, but now held his tongue. This was obviously something she'd need time to recover from. He was ashamed to think, when he first met Bridget, that he had thought her to be after nothing more than his nephew's money. "Why don't you go have a lie down with… Shaggy?"

Bridget nodded. "Very good idea."

………

_My dearest Bridget—_

_It's the first night you're gone, and I'm lost without you already. How did I ever get through my days without you? I can only take strength in knowing you're safe, in knowing I will see you soon enough and can hold you close to me._

_I regret that we did not have more warning, and that in herding you out the door I might have been a little too harsh. If I was, I am deeply sorry. I only hope that you're holding up better than I am._

_Since I can't be there with you, I send in my stead a proxy, one who's stood in for me before, albeit for shorter periods of time. I think he's up to the task, though. When you're curling up to sleep at night, hold him tight; know that I will be imagining it's me in your arms just as much as you are._

_You very well know I'm not a man of flowery prose; I don't speak eloquently when it comes to emotions and feelings, at times to my severe detriment. That said, you should explicitly know that I love you more than I can ever possibly express; that I would move mountains and part seas to ensure your happiness and safety; that I am not whole when you are not with me; that the anticipated joy in my heart upon seeing you again is the only thing keeping overwhelming sadness at bay. You are the light in the darkness of my dreary life, as it was before I found you._

_I realise that came perilously close to flowery prose, so I'll end here. Just remember one thing if you remember nothing else:_

_I love you._

_Yours,_  
_Mark_

There in the dim of her own room, lying on the bed with the bear crushed to her chest, Bridget had read the note what felt like a hundred times already and yet felt her eyes swell with tears once more. The soft fur of the bear was reassuring against her chin.

She was glad to have Shaggy, glad that he smelled everything warm and safe, like Mark, like home… but it made her miss Mark even more.

It was hopeless. She was going to be useless for the rest of the day, at the very least useless until she could send Mark something in return. She reached over for her diary and flipped it open to the back, to where there were some blank pages, and tore them out.

She started writing.

………

"Bridget? Everything all right?"

It was his niece at this office door, eyes red-rimmed and bright, bearing a few folded sheets of paper. "I need you to get this to Mark."

"Dear child," began Nick, "all of this communication between my house and Inns of Court or Holland Park is going to get terribly suspicious."

She came to sit across from the desk from him. "No, I've thought it through. You can send this to Magda, my friend. And Magda can give it to her husband Jeremy, who can give it to Mark. They work together."

Nick thought about it. It wasn't a bad idea.

"Please," Bridget added.

"All right. Let's get an envelope. Give me the address and I'll address it, then I can have Mary mail it."

"Not overnight?"

"Bridget, my sending an overnight letter to a woman I don't even know would arouse idle speculation. I'll use official letterhead, but you can write a note inside for your friend. He'll likely get the letter within the day."

Bridget grinned. "Okay."

"After this we really do need to maintain radio silence, as it were. All right?"

She pouted and said, "All right," though it didn't look like she was happy about it.

"Then we can hone your chess skills some more. After all, we have progress to make there—so that when you go home you can challenge Mark to a game, and beat him. Wouldn't _that_ shock him to the high heavens?"

She grinned. Secretly, he thought she liked learning the game, for all of her initial protests. Her eyes then fixed upon something on his desk.

"That's sweet," she said.

"What?"

She pointed to the wedding photo of herself and Mark. "Having this in here with you."

"Well," he said, feeling suddenly a little flustered at the suggestion of sentimentality on his part. "I spend most of my time in here."

She smiled again, and he knew exactly what she was thinking: _you don't fool me._

"So, about that letter…" he said.

He addressed one of his professional envelopes with neatly printed letters, as Bridget wrote a note on his letterhead explaining that Jeremy should pass it on to Mark. They got it sealed up and then left his office.

"Wait for me in the sitting room," said Nick, "while I give this to Mary."

"Okay."

Mary was in the laundry room, and he handed her the stamped letter as well as a twenty pound note.

"What's this for?" Mary asked, puzzled.

"I need you to post this for me," he said, then added, lowering his voice, "and pick up a large pepperoni pizza for Bridget and myself."

Mary blinked in surprise. It was true. It was likely the first time in their professional relationship he'd ever made a request for a pizza. "Yes, Mr Wentworth."

………

All things considered, it was a good night. Despite being sternly warned that it was a one-time thing, pizza in the sitting room over their game of chess with very good wine was something Bridget suspected she could talk him into doing again. She was really coming along with the chess, too—she'd hardly needed any prompting from Nick this time, and it was a fairly close match to boot, though he'd won again.

Now it was nighttime, and she was in bed, the lamp casting amber light over the room, Shaggy nestled in the crook of her arm. She hoped Mark knew she was thinking of him, hoped he would be as comforted by her letter as she was by his. On a whim, she reached over to the nightstand and read it once more for consolation.

_I love you too_, she thought, before folding it again, then turned over, switched off the lamp, and closed her eyes to go to sleep.

………

"Good afternoon, Mark," came a surprised-sounding voice. Mark looked up; it was Jeremy.

"Good afternoon," replied Mark.

"Wasn't expecting to see you in your office. Thought you were in court."

"A recess was called for the day, so I'm in finishing up some things. What can I do for you?"

"Some of your mail got delivered to me by mistake." Jeremy's voice dropped an octave as he set three or four envelopes on Mark's desk. "And this comes to you by way of my wife." He then set an opened envelope down on top of them all.

Mark was appropriately surprised. "What?" He picked it up and immediately recognised the envelope, the handwriting addressed to Magda. It was Nick's.

"Thank you, Jeremy." He'd had to confide the situation to Jeremy, being that they were working in such close quarters, though he never thought Bridget would reply through Magda.

"No problem," said Jeremy, who retreated, closing the door.

From the envelope, he pulled what he recognised to be pages from Bridget's diary and quickly unfolded them.

_Mark,_

_Words cannot convey how much your letter means to me. I know you think you're not good with verbalising your feelings and emotions, but I have never read anything more honest, heartfelt or touching. I don't know how I ever could have thought you were a stuck up snob (I shudder now to think of the less-than-kind variations of that sentiment I'd dreamt up to describe you). Actually, most of the time you need not say anything at all, at least not with words—a look, a posture will often say everything you need to say to me._

Mark smiled at this, considering most people found him quite inscrutable; she was probably the only person in the world who could make such a proclamation.

_I think I miss that most of all, the way you look at me as if I am the most perfect thing God has ever created; I know that I'm not, but it only matters to me that you think I am. (Well. That look is up there in the top five, anyway.)_

He laughed outright.

_I'll keep Shaggy close to me as I sleep, and hold on to him as if he's you. No one could ever truly take your place in my arms. I know when I see you again I'll hold on and not want to let you go, so I hope your calendar's free after this trial is over, because you can be sure I won't be wearing my granny pants. In fact, I may not have on any pants at all._

_Stay safe. I wish I were there. I miss you. I love you._

_Always and forever,_  
_Bridget_

He would have been surprised if a letter from Bridget didn't have some kind of naughty innuendo in it, and he smiled. He folded the pages up and tucked them into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket, to keep her letter close to his heart.

He then turned to the next letter on the pile, and used his letter opener to unseal it. He was a little puzzled when the letter opener came away with a residue on it. He pulled out the letter, saw more white powder fall out.

_To hide your wife away makes our job more difficult, but not impossible._  
_We already know she's not in London._  
_This should smoke her out quickly enough._

Trying to remain calm, Mark reached for the phone.


	2. Part 2 of 3

**To Watch Over Her**

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 23,144 (this part: 8,627)

Rating: M / R

Disclaimer, etc. can be found on Part One.

* * *

Holy Christ.

Nick had put on the news briefly before fetching Bridget for dinner, and saw that all hell had broken loose in the City of London: the delivery of a suspicious white powder to a barrister in chambers; biohazard and emergency response teams on the scene; only reluctantly at the end of the report did they name whose office they speculated the powder had surfaced in:

Mark Darcy's.

Quickly he switched the news off but after doing so, he could not move for the thoughts swirling in his head. Damn that boy for being so cavalier about his own safety. He knew immediately that he could not let Bridget know, at least not until there was more information one way or another. It could be something like anthrax; it could be baking powder.

It was hell not knowing.

He walked to the library, saw her typing away at what he presumed was her latest column. He smiled. At least she'd been inspired today to write. "Bridget, it's time for supper."

She turned to look at him, smiling. "No pizza again today, I'd wager."

"No, child."

Her brows drew together. "Everything all right?"

"Yes," he said, recovering quickly. "Just worried about dinner getting cold."

She smiled again, then rose from her seat. "I've been really productive today. I'm comparing the world of dating to chess strategy."

Nick chuckled, surprising himself.

At that moment his mobile rang, and he reached in to his pocket to answer it. Calling identification indicated it was the Metro Police; his heart raced. "Bridget, pardon me, I need to take this call."

She nodded, mouthing, "I'll go to the kitchen."

When he was certain she was out of earshot, he took the call. "Nick Wentworth."

"Nick. Don't let on it's me. Mark."

A cold rush of relief washed over him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I wanted to let you know that after a decontamination shower, the laundering of all of my clothes, near destruction of Bridget's letter to me, and a thorough cleaning of my office, the determination was that it was confectioner's sugar."

"That isn't what the news is reporting."

"It's not official until the final round of testing is complete, after thirty-six hours. But initial testing indicates a ninety-nine per cent chance it's regular household sugar."

"So you don't want to speak to—"

"No. In fact, I'm calling to ask that you keep her away from the news. I don't want her knowing about it even though I'm all right, because she'll want to come back to town. The men threatening her to get to me did this specifically to, I quote, 'smoke her out'." He cleared his throat. "I mean, I very much want to speak to her, but it's best I don't."

Nick said nothing at first; he knew how much this tense separation was killing both of them. "Don't worry," said Nick at last. "I'm keeping her safe. We're about to have supper. I've got everything in hand; just take care of yourself."

"I will. In future my mail's going through the police scanners first."

"Is the trial on track?"

"Yes. And I can't see the end of it too soon." Mark coughed. "Good thing it was only sugar. Think I inhaled some. I should go though; the inspectors want to speak to me about the initial letter. They have a preliminary analysis and if it can be tied to this case and the sugar threat… we're talking domestic terrorism on top of everything else. It'll be hard to wiggle out of that."

"Good job, my boy. Have a good night."

"I'll try. You too." Mark paused. "I wish I could say 'give Bridget a hug for me', but that'd give it away."

"Yes."

Mark paused again. "Goodbye, Nick."

"Goodbye."

He disconnected the phone.

He felt a little lighter as he joined Bridget in the kitchen, even found himself laughing a little, a natural reaction to having potentially devastating news dispelled with good. Bridget had already served each of them a portion of steak and salad and was pouring wine for them. "Good call?"

"Very good. Please let me know what you think of the way I've spiced these fillets. It's something new I'm trying."

She cut off a corner and popped it into her mouth, chewing and obviously savouring the steak. After she swallowed, she proclaimed, "It's a winner."

After supper, Bridget was amenable to another round of chess—funny how resistant she'd initially been, and how eager she seemed now—but he was alarmed when she proclaimed, "And afterwards I'm watching some telly. I feel so disconnected from the real world."

It at least gave him a chance to think of something to suggest, which had the unfortunate side effect of him not being at the top of his game; as a result, Bridget nearly won the match.

She was feeling pretty pleased with herself, which gave him the perfect opening for the diversion he'd concocted: "Since you've progressed so well, I have a surprise for you, and you mustn't tell Mark."

Her eyebrows shot up. Nick was certain that Mark would forgive this deviation of his instructions in the name of her safety. It was not as if she could dash off onto the Underground.

Nick continued, "After sunset, when it's dark, I would like to invite you out into the backyard for a cigarette."

The disbelief was evident in her expression, but then she grinned. "Really?"

He shrugged. "Unless you really want to just mindlessly channel hop—"

"No, no," she said hurriedly. "A fag out back? Infinitely preferable."

He smirked smugly. Sometimes it was far too easy to distract her.

………

"Uncle Nick?"

Bridget crept into the kitchen, surprised that Nick was not in his usual place at the table before consulting a clock and seeing that it was already ten-thirty in the morning. _Whoops_, she thought, though wondered why he'd let her sleep so long. Nick had kindly left her breakfast in the refrigerator (berries and yoghurt) and left the French press ready to add hot water to for more coffee.

She pulled the tops off of the strawberries in order to put them in the yoghurt, and went to throw said discarded tops into the waste bin when she noticed the newspaper was in there. It looked as if the paper had not even been opened, which was odd, as she knew how much Nick enjoyed his crosswords. She reached in and grabbed it, grateful that coffee grounds or other detritus had not been dumped on top of it.

The minute she saw the front page, she knew why he had sacrificed his crosswords. She was alternately terrified and angry.

_Anthrax Scare at Inns of Court_  
_Thought to be Linked to Barrister in High Profile Case_

She scanned the body of the article for Mark's name and found it. She also discovered that it had been his office that had been the focal point for the possibly anthrax-laced mail.

Bridget did not know what to do first. Her eyes filled with tears as the paper fell from her hand. She was trembling with fear. Nick had clearly seen the newspaper yet was deliberately trying to keep her in the dark. How could Nick not have been more concerned?

Sitting back and doing nothing might have been all right for Nick—_love the old bugger, but… bastard!_ she thought—but it was not all right for her. She went back upstairs, dressed hastily, then stopped to think. Even if she left the house, she had no idea how she'd get to London.

Decidedly she thought, _I'll just have to pinch his car._

She went back downstairs and crept back to the kitchen. Still no Nick in sight. She passed through to the garage and upon seeing his car, realised she did not have the keys. _Shit._ She didn't have the faintest idea where he kept his keys; logic dictated maybe the kitchen was the place to deposit them after entering from the garage. She turned around to re-enter the house.

She found, much to her dismay, that the door had locked behind her.

_Double shit!_

Her mind raced; she thought if she could just get the garage door opened and find some way to get the car started, she could be on her way to London in a flash. The controller for the garage door was likely in the car, she reasoned, and it couldn't have been that difficult to hotwire a car; people in the movies did it all the time. She went to the door of the car and pulled hard on the handle, which did not in fact open the door, merely set the alarm to wailing a horrible _doo-wee-doo-wee_ that felt like sharp spikes pushing into her eardrums.

Within seconds, even over the din of the car alarm, she could hear Nick's voice booming:

"Bridget! What the _hell_ are you doing?"

He held up his car keys, pushed a button, and blessedly the alarm ceased, though the ringing would likely sound in her ears for some time to come.

"I'm going back home to London and you can't stop me."

"The hell I can't," said Nick, striding up to her and grasping her wrist, yanking her back into the house.

She began, stumbling against the kitchen counter as he released her wrist, "I saw the paper—"

"Yes, I saw the mess of paper on the kitchen floor where you left it," he said, sounding a bit calmer, though still looked furious. "I had a very good reason for not telling you about this."

She pursed her lips.

He went on to explain. "Mark asked me not to."

"Mark? When did you talk to—_the phone call last night?_" she asked as the light dawned. "Why didn't you let me talk to him? Why didn't Mark want you to tell me about this, about any of it?"

Nick sighed in that long-suffering way he had mastered. "First of all, Mark said that the powder was harmless. Fine grain sugar." She exhaled with relief. "Secondly, the people threatening you did this to try to lure you back to London, so Mark didn't want you to know any of it, not even that he was all right, because he knew you'd want to go back straightaway." She felt tears brimming in her eyes again. She tried to be strong but felt them spill on to her cheek, and turned away before Nick could see. Mark had been right. She wanted to go back to London more than anything now, damn her own safety.

She felt Nick's strong hand on her shoulder.

"I did ask him if he wanted to speak to you," he said gently. "He did, but he thought it best if he didn't, because that would only make you question why he was calling. I'm sorry." After a pause, he continued. "He did ask me to give you this, though, and I shouldn't because of how irresponsible and foolish it was of you to try to take off with my car and head directly into the jaws of danger, but I'll allow that you're probably upset. So here."

With that he embraced her, held her with the same sort of comfort any blood relative could have given, and then some. She felt so weak and vulnerable at that moment that she started to cry, somewhat restrained at first, but quickly disintegrating to wet, snotty bawling.

Finally she calmed down, pulling back to wipe under her eyes and at her nose.

"Thank you," she said quietly, then looked to him with pleading eyes. "Please take me back to London. I don't care what happens to me. I need to be near Mark. I'm so scared for him."

"I can't do that, Bridget," he said calmly. "I promised him I'd keep you safe here, and so I shall. He's fine, the police are very close to finding the culprits behind this, and the trial will be over in less than a week and a half."

"You see? I can go home. If you don't take me, I'll—"

"You'll what?" Nick asked hotly, his features rigidly stern, his icy eyes burning into her soul. "Try to escape again? Are you _mad_? Do you want me to lock you in your room for the rest of your time here?"

"You wouldn't."

"If I had to, yes, I would."

She started to cry again, willed herself to stop. "I really don't know if I can make it another week and a half."

His voice returned to its previous tenderness. "You can. And I'm always right. Now come on, let's try again to have breakfast. I'll even let you have the crosswords."

She reflexively chuckled through her sniffles. "All right." She tried to resolve to be patient and stay safe for Mark's sake. "Uncle Nick, when you spoke to Mark, where did he call from? Can I call him there?"

"I'm afraid not, child. He was calling from the police station. I think he figured it would be safe calling from there."

"He was really all right?"

"Aside from breathing in a little sugar, he's really all right."

"And he's sure it's sugar?" she asked, panicked.

"The folks doing the testing seem to think so with a very high degree of certainty. Really. I know it's foolish for me to say so, but: Don't worry."

At least Nick acknowledged it was foolish for him to tell her not to worry.

………

"Mr Darcy, this was delivered to you late yesterday. We only just processed it today, and actually, we've got the original in the lab."

Mark blinked, meeting the eyes of the police inspector, then took the letter from the man's hand.

The letter contained two lines of text:

_I promise you we'll find her. We're very close now._  
_And when we do, it won't be sugar we'll send her._

Mark looked up, panicked.

The police inspector asked, "Have you contacted her since she went out of town?"

Mark said, "I only sent her an item she left behind through a very circuitous route. Unless Rebecca herself is in on it, and I very much doubt that, then no, no one could know where she is."

"And has she contacted you?"

"Once," he said, "through an equally circuitous route."

"So exactly how many people now know the location where your wife is hiding?"

Mark had still not revealed Bridget's location even to the police, only that she was safe with his uncle. "My uncle, Rebecca, Jeremy, and his wife Magda, who also happens to be a long-time friend of Bridget's."

"The circuitous routes, I gather. Okay. And you're absolutely certain none of these individuals would be in collusion with the person or persons making these threats to your wife?"

"Absolutely certain," he said with confidence, though the spectre of Horatio's betrayal reared its ugly head most inconveniently. He shook it aside; he knew Rebecca, Jeremy and even Magda much better than he'd ever known Horatio, and knew none would betray himself or Bridget.

"Any thing else I should know?"

Mark had to be honest. "I did call my uncle to let him know I was not in danger after the sugar scare." After a pause, after receiving an incredulous stare from the inspector, Mark added, "From _your_ police station."

"Ah. I see." He handed Mark the rest of this mail; Mark could not help but feel a little indignant that such precaution needed to be taken. "Good news, though." He paused to clear his throat; Mark wondered if it was actually for dramatic effect. The inspector continued in a much quieter voice. "Evidence was not easy to gather off of the letters you've provided—the bugger was very careful. The lab boys had a tough time of it, but they've got the proof we need to level charges against the man sending these threats."

"You know who's doing this?" Mark asked, dumbfounded; now he was wondering why it had taken him so damned long to give him this information. "Is it at all connected to my case?"

"We're certain of the identity of the owner of the prints and the DNA that were found, but we're fairly sure he's not acting alone, and that it's connected to your case. This chap's a weaselly sort of fellow who I think will snitch on his mates to save his own skin."

Mark exhaled heavily with a breath he did not even realise he was holding in. "How fast can you act?" he asked. "Trial's due to conclude in a week's time."

"We're on the move right now to pick him up. All very hush-hush. Just wanted to keep you apprised." The inspector went around to sit behind his desk again; when he spoke again his tone of voice was louder and much crisper. "Thanks for coming down to get your mail. Much appreciated."

Mark realised at the voice change that perhaps the news about making the identification was something the inspector was not supposed to have told him. "Thank you, Inspector. Let me know when you have more for me."

………

The days had begun to blend together, and while Nick and Bridget slipped into a rather comfortable routine, she thought constantly of Mark and plotted her great escape almost daily. Unfortunately, she was never far from Nick's watchful gaze, and she had noticed very soon after arriving that each of the windows had a very beautiful and very functional set of iron bars covering them.

Before she knew it, though, it was a week since she'd arrived. Surely, she thought, _surely_ the police have caught the person doing this by now. If not, her place really was at his side during this difficult time, just as she vowed on her wedding day.

She also reasoned that Mark was likely just being overprotective of her, as usual. After all, it was Mark who'd received the powder, not her. Why in the world would they care if she was with Mark? Worrying about her when he was dealing with this all alone and no one to take care of him was insupportable.

She was resolute. She was going to leave, and tonight was going to be the night. Never mind the car and garage and all the alarms and keys needed; she could just sneak out right through the front door. The train station couldn't have been that far away.

………

Nick was suspicious. Granted, he was always suspicious, but tonight, he was even more so.

He expected, _knew_, that she would try to leave again, and it was nothing overt that she'd said or done, but the little things: the way she'd gaze out the window as if looking for a way out; how she was so distracted during their chess match that she missed the tactical opportunity of a lifetime; the especially affectionate way she'd hugged and pecked his cheek good night.

As he turned over in bed, halfway between wakefulness and dreaming, he thought how much he would have liked a daughter. He liked being around Bridget because she felt like the daughter he'd never had—complete with inappropriate insubordination—and consequently felt her absence most acutely when they were apart. He was thankful he got to see both her and his nephew as frequently as he did; it wasn't as if a son would have been unwanted, but there was a special place in his heart reserved for a daughter, and Bridget filled that place quite neatly. It was lovely to have someone in his life he could spoil in such a way (especially with his cooking), and who could in turn spoil him with such honest affection. Not that he would ever own up to it.

It was all too fitting that he should have been lazily thinking about her, about how dear to him she was, when the sound of her voice, apparently cursing at quite high volume, made its way to his ears. He was a light sleeper to begin with, but even if he hadn't been he surely wouldn't have been able to sleep through that.

He sat up, bemused. She must have discovered that he'd been locking her bedroom and bathroom during the night. Frankly, he wondered why it'd taken her so long.

He sat up in bed, slipped into his robe and went into the hallway. "Bridget?" he asked through the closed door. "Everything all right?"

"I can't believe you've locked me in!"

He didn't dare open the door. "Yes, well, looks like I had good reason to do so."

"Nick, I want to go back to London."

"Were you planning on walking?"

"Of course not!" came the indignant retort.

"What was your plan?"

There was silence. "To catch the train."

"Ah, so you _were_ planning on walking. The nearest station is a good distance away, and there isn't much service at three in the morning. Bridget, go back to bed."

"What if I'd wanted a snack?" she said, annoyance plain in her voice, clearly changing tack.

"Why do you think I fed you so well at dinner?"

More silence. "Fine. I'll go back to sleep, but in the morning, we are discussing my going back to London."

"I can tell you right now that the extent of my half of the discussion will be this: 'No.'" He grinned at her stubbornness—she wouldn't have been her without it. "Go to bed," he said in his best commanding voice.

She did not say another word.

………

Nick woke at his usual time and went immediately to Bridget's door, unlocking it and knocking. There was, unsurprisingly, no answer. He stepped cautiously into the room, saw that, clad in her sheep print pyjamas, she was fast asleep with the bear tucked under her chin, a crease still furrowing her brow, a pout still playing on her lips.

"Bridget, child, wake up."

She grunted in return.

"Come on. You have a lot of work to do today."

"Go away," she said, turning over.

He strode to the bed, standing over her. "You have a deadline today."

"I have a deadline at the _end_ of the day," she grumbled.

He went to the window, throwing wide the blinds, causing her to recoil into a ball under the sheets. "You'll be finished before dinner preparation," he said, "with which I will need your help."

She flipped her sheets back and sat up, hair askew. "Why are you being so mean?"

"I have to keep you busy or else you start making plans," he said drolly. "Now get up, get in your shower and I'll go fix coffee and breakfast. If you're not down for food when it's ready, I'm throwing it away."

"Uncle _Nick!_" she said, pouting.

"Time's a-wasting," he said, then left the room, closing the door behind him.

………

There was one thing she did concede. Even though she completely loathed being dragged out of bed far too early at the threat of her breakfast being so rudely dispatched, she did get her article finished in record time, and she very much enjoyed cooking with Nick.

She still resented being treated like a prisoner.

"Up for chess tonight?" he asked as they finished dinner.

"Dunno," she said, then was overtaken by a yawn. "You've run me quite ragged today."

"All right. Off you go to bed then."

"But Nick. It's seven in the evening."

"If you don't want to play chess, I have things I need to do," he said nonchalantly. "And I can't be fussed to keep an eye on you at the same time."

"No, no! I'll play!"

He leaned back in his chair. "Well, I don't know. I've kind of got my mind set to work on my article some more, and you look very tired, child." He dove his hand into his trouser pocket; she could hear the jingle of keys as he pulled them out.

"Please play, please?" she asked, in rather a more begging tone than she had intended. She was not proud of this.

He cracked a grin, the old bugger. Playing was exactly what he'd wanted all along. "Well. If you insist."

………

"They want to what?" asked Mark.

"I think you heard me," said Jeremy, leaning against Mark's office door, smug smile in place. "With the new charges in place they can see the writing on the wall. They want to plea bargain."

Mark's whole face fell in shock. The added conspiracy charges for terrorism and the abundant proof (and testimony of the person who'd actually made the threats against Bridget and had sent the mail threat) made a guilty conviction and a long sentence very likely.

Jeremy added, "This whole thing could be over in another day or so."

Mark was elated. This entire case had worn him out body and soul, and he was glad to see the end of it come sooner rather than later, even if it was only by days. He smiled. "This is the best news I've had in a very long time."

Jeremy grinned. "Thought you might like to know. We have a meeting in the morning to discuss the proposed plea. We could have it to the court by afternoon."

Mark had a crazy thought to leave the office at once and pick up Bridget that night, but reason kicked in. He needed to have this whole thing wrapped up and over with before he could bring her home, for her safety as well as his peace of mind. "Well. Might as well get home and get some rest. Have a very big day tomorrow."

"Very," Jeremy said, smirking again. "Taking care of this mess, and, I'm sure, a little holiday to plan." He winked, then left Mark's office.

_Yes_, he thought, continuing to grin. _Very good idea._

………

Stunned.

As he listened to Bridget cheer, watched her get up and dance around the playing table in her victory, Nick merely sat there, stunned. Not even Mark could beat Nick at chess on a good day, and now he had just been defeated by a woman who'd been playing a hair over a week.

He went over all of the moves in his head. He was confident he had played well, that all of her moves had been proper too, and yet….

"So what do I win?"

"You mean besides being the deliverer of my ignominious defeat?" he said.

"Oh, chuh, Mark must beat you all the time," she said playfully. He did not respond. "Every once in a while?" He still said nothing, which, in retrospect, was probably a mistake, as her eyes widened big as saucers. "Ever?"

"No," he admitted reluctantly.

"You're kidding!" she said, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth. "Never ever?"

"Bridget," he said darkly.

She was still grinning as she sat down again. "Want to make it double or nothing?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

"Absolutely not," he said. "It's late and it's time for bed for you."

"Until tomorrow then?" she queried.

Not wanting to seem like a sore loser, he said, "We'll see."

She rose from her chair once more and walked over to where Nick sat, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pecking his cheek. "Good night," she said, still beaming as she danced out of the room.

_Maybe_, he thought drolly,_ I should just not try to win if it's going to keep her so well-behaved._

………

"So what's her name?" asked Bridget over breakfast.

"Whose name?" said Nick, though he looked like he was afraid he already knew.

"Your… you know. _Lady friend,_" said Bridget, in Mary's words.

At that, Nick laughed. "You mean my 'just for now' girl?"

Just then, Bridget spotted Nick's mobile phone sitting on the table, the edge of it barely visible from under the corner of the folded newspaper. Her heart raced, a plan immediately forming in her mind. "Yes."

"I'm still not sure why it matters to you."

"I'm curious," she said, eating her eggs. "I care about you and want to know that you're happy. That and I can't keep calling her 'just for now' girl, 'cause if I ever meet her I'd probably call her that."

Nick chuckled again. "Rose."

"That's pretty," said Bridget decisively. "Is she, as I think you put it, a generation too young for you?"

"No," said Nick with a grin. "She's dodderingly old, like myself."

Bridget pursed her lips. "You are not dodderingly old. In fact, you're still a very handsome man."

"You're not really unbiased, child."

"So is she mad at you for not seeing her for so long?"

"Well, she's not happy, but I explained it was a family emergency, and she understands."

"That's good." She needed to get Nick to leave the table. The impulse to grab his mobile before he realised it was there and took it back was very strong. "Have you seen anything more in the paper about Mark's trial?"

"I think there was something on the front page. Let me get it for you."

He stood and made for the counter. She had her chance. "Anything in this section?" she asked, grabbing the folded paper and the phone in one fell swoop. Victory! She dropped the phone onto her lap, then slyly tucked the phone into the pocket of her trousers before making a great show of opening up the twice-folded section and looking for news.

"Ah, here it is," said Nick, locating the front page at last. "Says there have been additional charges levelled due to the mail threat."

"Oh, so that means they know who did it?"

"It doesn't say. They're usually pretty circumspect with an open investigation."

Bridget pouted. "I hope this doesn't mean it's going to drag this thing out longer. Not that I don't like your company, but this house arrest thing is getting a bit tedious."

Nick chuckled. "No offence taken."

"Well, off to the loo, then off to the library," she said, rising from her place at the table. "Excellent brekkies as always."

"I'm glad you approve."

Fighting the urge to bolt at top speed up the stairs, she scaled at a leisurely pace then went into the bathroom, closing the door and leaning against it. She then reached into her pocket and pulled out the phone.

She never thought she could have been so happy to see a mobile phone. She started to punch Mark's number in and was about to hit Talk when a knock directly behind her head caused her to nearly jump out of her skin.

"Bridget." It was Nick. "My mobile, please."

How did he know? "Nick, please, a little privacy please."

She felt the knob turning, and she leaned harder against the door. He was stronger than she was though and the door came crashing open. The jolt caused the phone to fall out of her hand and hit the floor hard. The fracturing of the case was audible.

Nick looked furious. "You little liar."

"That's not fair. I never said I didn't have it."

He looked surprised for a flash before the anger returned. He stalked past her to retrieve his phone. He picked it up, pressed a few buttons. His expression got even darker. "And now you've broken my phone."

"Don't put that on me. If you hadn't forced the door open and knocked me over I wouldn't have dropped—"

"_Bridget!_" he snapped, shouting at her. "Why do you continue to defy me?"

Indignantly she said, "I'm a grown woman and if I want to make a phone call, I can."

"_Grown woman?_ When you have selfishly tried to undo all of the work we've done to protect you? It could put you in danger, put Mark's case in danger… all for what amounts to a temper tantrum?"

"No!" she cried; as she spoke, tears spilled onto her cheeks, and her voice began to crack. "It's because I miss Mark more than anything in the world, that being apart from him is like being deprived of a part of myself. Not even hearing his voice is killing me."

"Bridget," he said, his voice a little softer. "I am not unaware of how much of a toll this is taking on the _both_ of you. I would never deny you a phone call otherwise." He set the broken phone down on the sink then gave her a big, fatherly hug. "You just have to have patience, and think of the bigger picture. When Mark's done with his case, you'll be safe, and I can take you back to London."

"Okay," she sniffled. "And I can buy you a new phone."

He tightened his embrace, chuckling.

………

Despite the morning's drama, the day turned out to be a relatively quiet one: Bridget found something nice to read in the library as Nick decided to devote the day to finishing his article. He had expected more theatrics when he insisted she read in his office with him (so he could keep an eye on her), but she agreed without a fight, leading him to believe that maybe she wanted the company. When he looked up just before they were to leave to start supper, he found she had dozed off with the book against her chest, sitting sideways in the chair with her legs dangling over the edge.

"Bridget, child, I never thought Wodehouse could put anyone to sleep."

She started awake. "Oh, goodness. What time is it?"

"Time to make supper."

"Oh." She turned in the chair and got to her feet, stretching. "What's on the menu?"

"I was thinking baked salmon, long grain rice and a side of steamed asparagus."

She grinned.

"What's so amusing?"

"I always feel like a child in the kitchen when you're around, but I don't mind. I learn a lot from you."

"You _are_ a child in the kitchen," Nick said, fighting a grin of his own. "Come on, let's get started."

………

_He must be a magician_, thought Bridget, taking a long draw off of her after-supper cigarette, staring up into the night. _I can't think how else to explain what he does to food._

It was miraculous he allowed her to come outside with him for a smoke, given her previous escape and phone call attempts. Secretly she thought he rather liked having someone to do these things with—cook, play chess, and even smoke—and suspected that Rose was not the chess-playing type.

"What's on your mind?" asked Nick.

She felt her skin flood with embarrassment. Thank God he couldn't see it. Thinking quickly, she supplied, "Just wondering how many more nights we'll be eating supper together."

"Ah." He paused, and she could see the flaring ember at the end of his fag. "Probably looking forward to nights out with your girlfriends and takeaway pizzas whenever you like." _And Mark_, she thought, but that went without saying.

"Well, yes," she said, "but that doesn't mean I won't miss you terribly."

He said nothing.

"Or your cooking."

She heard him chuckle. "I always thought Mark might have inherited the talent."

"He's much better than I am," explained Bridget. "But he's usually too busy to cook, hence the takeaway, or the housekeeper's cooking, but she can't hold a candle to you." She took another drag. "I wish you lived closer to London, Uncle Nick."

"As do I."

"And I don't mean just for your cooking."

He laughed low in his throat again. "I know."

She looked up at the stars, feeling wistful, imagining Mark was perhaps at that moment doing the same. _That's silly_, she thought chidingly. _He's probably far too busy with his case to be gazing at the stars._

She stubbed out her cigarette, rose from the patio chair and stretched. "Well. I think I will have a bath before bed," she said, looking down upon him, preparing to bend to peck a kiss into his cheek as she always did. Instead, she dropped to a crouch then reached to give him a huge bear hug. She pecked his cheek, then said, "I will very much miss you," she said, her voice surprisingly laden with emotion.

He said nothing, only returned the hug, then kissed her on her forehead as she pulled away. "Enjoy your bath," he said.

She wouldn't swear to it, but she thought she saw tears sparkling in the corners of his eyes.

………

As of five P.M. tomorrow, it would all be over.

Mark had never felt so elated in his entire life. He had gone to the window of the bedroom he shared with Bridget, the anticipation of having her there again making him grin like a fool. He looked out into the evening sky, taking in a deep, relieved breath, then reached for his mobile phone.

He didn't think it would hurt to call Nick, to arrange for Bridget to be here at home waiting for him when he finished. He couldn't think of a better reward.

Unfortunately, he seemed unable to reach Nick's home number—a pre-recorded BT message saying all circuits were busy and to try again later was what he was met with repeatedly—so he simply tried Nick's mobile.

Strange. That wasn't ringing through either; it just kept ringing and ringing.

Mark then figured he would try again in the morning. It wasn't as if Nick lived hours upon hours away and needed an entire day to travel.

It concerned Mark a little that, when he tried again at the lunch recess the following day, he could still not get through, but figured it had more to do with BT then any threat against his wife, considering the man responsible was no longer free to make threats, let alone carry them out…

It didn't mean that as the end of the day approached, the sentence was handed down, and he still couldn't reach Nick that he was thinking about things rationally.

He simply got into his car and headed straight for Cambridge.

………

"Well, bugger," said Nick, more to himself than to anyone else. "I wonder how long this has been out."

"How long what's been out?" It was Bridget, looking up from her spot on the chair. She'd given the Wodehouse another go and had managed to stay awake this time.

"The telephone."

"What's wrong with the phone?"

"No dial tone."

"You don't think…"

Nick laughed at the dramatic turn of her tone. "No, Bridget, I don't think this has anything to do with Mark, the trial, or any threat against you. The phone lines out here can be a little unpredictable."

"Oh." She settled back into the seat, looking a little mollified.

"If I had a working mobile," he said cheekily, "I could call BT and find out."

As expected, she shot him a dirty look.

"Why don't you go to your neighbour's and see if they have a dial tone?"

It was a very good idea, but he hardly wanted to leave her in the house alone.

As if reading his mind, she said, "I promise not to make a run for it."

He thought about it, but decided against it. Mark wouldn't be done with his case for a few more days at least, and the line would surely be back by then. "I don't need to make a call that badly," said Nick.

He got back to work; Bridget got back to reading; before he knew it he was finished with the article, it was time to start preparing supper, and she had fallen asleep again. _What kind of book does it take to keep that girl awake?_ he thought amusedly.

He stepped out of his office, leaving her to her nap, and was heading for the kitchen when a knock at the front door caught his attention.

_Maybe it's a neighbour come to see if my line has a dial tone_, he thought, perplexed.

He swung open the door and was astounded by the sight that greeted him:

It was his nephew, and he looked concerned.

"Mark?" he said quietly in his confusion. "Good to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"Nick, is everything all right?" he asked. "I've been trying to reach you since last night…"

"A little trouble with the phone lines," he said. "It happens a lot."

"What about your mobile?"

"Oh, well," Nick explained. "We had a bit of a… an incident with the mobile and it broke, but that's neither here nor there. Why are you here so soon?"

Mark blinked confusedly at the allusion to the mobile struggle, but he then explained, "It's over and done with. Bridget can come home." He fell silent, then looked concerned. "Where is she? Don't have her locked in her room, do you?"

Nick laughed outright. "Not at the moment, no. She's in my office, at the end of the hall. She fell asleep while reading. Why don't you go wake her up, and I'll start supper. You're staying, I hope?"

Mark looked thoughtful, then smiled. "If you have the room for us, sure."

………

It had not taken Mark long to decide that he didn't want to have to make the drive all the way back to London before he was able to take her in his arms and hold her close. That would have been more than he could bear.

He slipped into Nick's office, his eyes immediately searching for and finding her. She was sideways in the wingback chair, her legs draped over the armrest, the opened book tented against her chest, which rose and fell with slow, measured breaths. He was sure that she had not been an angel during her stay, but right now she looked so much like one that he could not resist crouching at her side, touching her face tenderly, and brushing a golden lock out of her eyes.

………

Bridget had been having the most pleasant dream. She and Mark were picnicking on a boat on a very broad river; she could just barely see the banks but being with him she felt so safe that she hardly cared.

Through her sleep she felt fingertips against her face. Furrowing her brows, she blinked the sleep from her eyes and opened them unsurely.

She must have still been sleeping. That was the only thing that could explain what she was seeing.

"Hello, love," came Mark's tender voice.

Coming instantly into wakefulness, she pushed herself upright then scrambled into his arms. This had the unfortunate effect of causing him to lose his balance, sending his besuited self backwards most inelegantly to land on his backside on the floor. He was laughing, though, and as she laid there sprawled atop him, holding him like she might not let go, she began to laugh too.

"That's so typical of you, Bridget," he said, sitting up again with her on his lap. "Turning my world upside down."

She laughed once more, tears of happiness in her eyes, before she pulled him into a soul-satisfying kiss. Everything she wanted to say, every question she wanted to ask, could wait.

She could feel Mark chuckling low in his throat. "I'm happy to see you, too," he managed to get out, between those moments where she utterly laid claim to his lips. She pulled back from the kiss, still disbelieving that he was really here with her.

She combed her fingers through his hair; he closed his eyes at the very contact. "How is it that you're here?" she asked softly, placing tender little kisses around his mouth. "Aren't I still in danger? Your case—"

"Is over," he interrupted. "It's over and you're coming back to London with me."

She could barely breathe. This wasn't just some sort of clandestine visit, where Mark had changed cars three times in order to come to her; it was over and he wasn't leaving Nick's without her. "Over?"

He nodded.

"I'm not in danger any more?"

He shook his head.

"We'll be in our own bed tonight? Because I'm not letting you—"

She stopped when she realised he was still shaking his head in the negative.

He leaned forward to explain. "I am not waiting to get back to London for _that_," he said in a low growl into her ear. "Only supper."

"Oh," she said, rather giddily for one syllable, remembering the other bedroom with the double bed, the one farther away from Nick. "That will suffice."

"Do you think?" he said, lavishing attention upon her neck, taking her earlobe between his teeth. She felt dizzy, snaking her arms about his neck.

"I'm not so sure now," she said disconnectedly.

"Mark! Bridget!" It was Nick's booming voice. "Supper!"

It had exactly the effect she was sure he wanted it to have; Mark stopped what he was doing, briefly kissed her cheek, then murmured, "Come on, let's have something to eat."

She grinned. They definitely would be retiring early that evening.

He went to rise from the floor, but she was not letting go of him. "Bridget," he said, "I can't stand with you hanging onto me."

"Why not?"

"Hm," he said thoughtfully. "I suppose if you haven't been eating too many of Nick's muffins…" She swatted him playfully just as he swept her up into his arms and planted another kiss on her mouth.

"I'm not letting go of you tonight," she warned.

"Duly noted," he said, then strode out of the office.

………

When Nick saw Mark and Bridget enter the kitchen, her arms around his neck as he walked, carrying her, into the kitchen, he thought (and not for the first time) of how much he had misjudged her at their initial meeting.

"Smells wonderful," said Mark. "Pasta?"

Nick nodded, thinking it sweet that Mark was choosing to carry her to the dinner table. They sat down, she on his lap, and thought (again, not for the first time) how he'd never expected to see his nephew like this, so obviously smitten with this girl, even still.

"So explain to me, Mark, how it comes to pass you're finished with your case sooner than expected," said Nick, dishing out the penne.

"Plea bargain," said Mark with as much dignity as possible considering Bridget was nestled into his neck, eyes closed, smiling contentedly.

"Ah," said Nick. "I thought a plea might have been in the cards when I saw mention of additional charges, but I didn't want to get Bridget's hopes up."

Bridget popped up. "I'm glad you didn't say anything either! I would have gone mental!"

Nick chuckled. As if she hadn't already been going mental. He then watched as Mark brought a forkful of food up to eat and like a baby bird, Bridget opened her mouth, half-grinning, waiting for some penne.

Mark naturally obliged.

If Nick were a betting man, he would have bet his savings on Mark and Bridget claiming fatigue and retiring early.

"I presume," said Nick, "that the monster threatening your wife is safely behind bars?"

"Absolutely," he said, then took a forkful in for himself. Bridget leaned into the table far enough to grab her glass of wine, then took a sip. "He was, however, only in it for the money. He had nothing personal against Bridget."

"He was very good at writing scary things," said Bridget, then opened her mouth again for another bite of dinner. Mark had anticipated this and delivered it to her with impressive precision.

"Well, then I'm glad he's locked up," said Nick.

"For a very long time, despite giving evidence to the Crown against his employers."

"Hurrah!" said Bridget, raising her red wine and sipping again.

"Hurrah," echoed Mark, feeding her another bite.

They made it through one of two plates before Bridget, looking up to Mark, realised he had sauce on his lower lip, and felt the need to swipe it off with her thumb. As she stuck the edge of her thumb between her lips, their gazes seemed to lock. Mark then said in a strangely disconnected voice, "Well, I'm pretty wrecked given the events of the day."

"Mm. Me too. All this worrying has taken its toll. Think I'll sleep well tonight though."

Highly dubious of Bridget's proclamation, Nick could only reflect how he could have doubled his savings as Mark rose from his chair and carried Bridget upstairs. Nick stifled a smirk as he heard Bridget comment, "And we can even use the big bed!"

………

"Bridget," Mark whispered a scold in return, "I don't think you realise how easily your voice carries."

"Sorry," she whispered back, smiling. "I'm just so… happy to see you."

As he got to the top of the stairs, he tried to lower her to her feet. "Lead on."

"No. I told you I'm not letting go of you tonight."

He chuckled, conceding, as he raised his arms again.

"Go in there," she said, pointing to the third door down the hall. "I'll get my bag and—"

"Is there anything you really need from that bag?" he asked quietly, interrupting her.

She grinned, placing her lips upon his neck and kissing him. "I don't suppose I do."

He went to the door at the top of the stairs as she indicated and as the door swung open, he smiled upon seeing it. It was as dignified, as stately, and as bland as anything he'd had in his house before Bridget had moved in, and immediately he wondered what she'd thought of the Nick's decorating style.

Only now did he dare try to set her down, and this time, she allowed him to. She stood on her feet, but still had her arms linked around his neck.

"You know," he said throatily, running his fingers along the underside of her arms to place his hands on her waist, "this could prove to be inconvenient."

"What could?"

"Your refusal to let go of me. How am I supposed to divest you of your troublesome clothing?"

She smiled. "I trust you'll find a way."

Bridget was, of course, right; his employment of logic—releasing one of her hands at a time from around his neck—prevented the rending of fabric (and kept what he knew to be one of her favourite bras intact).

By the time her hands came away from him altogether, she was far too otherwise secured by his person to care where they were.

………

She didn't care if she slept at all that night. She had missed him far too much.

As a result, she also didn't care about whether or not he slept, either, and so upon catching him dozing, she stared at him until the inevitable result occurred and he opened his eyes. "Bridget?" he said, blinking sleepily. "What's the matter?"

Her only reply was to smile quite devilishly.

"Bridget," he laughed. "There's no hurry. I'm not going to disappear."

She pouted, lightly raking his chest with her fingernails. "But I'm not sleepy."

"Hm," he said. "I have just the thing to help with that."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Quickly he turned over and began to kiss her again, then, as he lavished a shower of light kisses on her throat, he said, "Glass of warm milk should do nicely."

"Mark!" she said, as he leisurely moved down to kiss the divot between her collarbones.

"Sorry, didn't mean to offend," he said, not stopping, pushing her flat against the mattress, moving to press kisses in a line along her sternum. "Nice big serving of turkey then?"

"No." She started to giggle, but faltered as she felt his tongue against the skin of her stomach.

"Oh," he said, grazing his teeth against her hip. "How about a bedtime story?"

"Hm, I quite like where _this_ story is going," she sighed.


	3. Part 3 of 3

**To Watch Over Her**

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 23,144 (this part: 6,107)

Rating: M / R

Disclaimer, etc. can be found on Part One. One note: I do not play chess, so any errors on the game are entirely my own.

* * *

It was one of the loveliest summer mornings all season, and as a result, Mary had quite a spring in her step as she made her way to the second floor. She had not seen her employer yet that morning, but that was not unusual; Mr Wentworth often liked to take early morning walks, though he hadn't been doing much of that lately. She hoped he remembered her telling him on Tuesday that she was coming Thursday instead of Friday so that she could take a long weekend and drive up to her sister's in the Cotswolds.

The master bedroom door was wide open, signalling that Mr Wentworth was not in there; she entered the room and found the bed neatly made as usual, and collected his laundry basket from out of the en suite bath.

As she retreated from the master bedroom though, she heard what she thought sounded like a woman's voice saying "Oh", coming from the other end of the hallway. Curious; the door to the room that his niece was staying in was also wide open, though she was gone and her bed was not made up at all. She poked her head inside, feeling slightly disgusted. Young people had no sense of decorum—

It was then she heard the sound again, longer, stronger, and… deeper?

Her hand raised to cover her mouth. That was a _man's_ voice!

As both voices sounded at once, raising ever higher and louder in a chorus of sorts, it became very clear to her exactly what was going on in that third bedroom, and she was shocked. _Shocked!_ A man his age having torrid carnal relations with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter—_niece my eye_, she thought; _an obvious lie_—she was mortified, and scaled the stairs as quickly as she could to get to the laundry room.

Forget having the day off—she was going to tender a resignation!

………

Nick had gone to bed later than he usually liked to in order to try to give the newly-reunited couple a wide berth, and thankfully, all was quiet as he made his way to bed, and again this morning upon descending for his morning coffee. He had, however, completely forgotten about Mary coming on one of her usual off-days, so when she came downstairs with the laundry basket, he intended on telling her straight away that he had yet another guest.

However, the look of surprise on her face made him wonder what she'd seen (or heard). Mary's gaze, scanning the room, landed on Nick; she apparently had not even noticed her employer at the table, and when she did, she visibly started. "Oh!" she said, her free hand covering her heart as if to stop it from racing. "I thought you were—" she began, her eyes darting back the way she'd come, then continued, "I didn't think—How are you this morning, Mr Wentworth?" she gibbered.

Whatever it was she'd seen or heard, it was enough, and he had a very good idea what 'it' might have been. Nick explained matter-of-factly, "Bridget's husband arrived last night."

"Oh!" Mary said again.

"They haven't seen each other in almost two weeks," he continued, when it was apparent Mary would say no more.

Mary blinked, took a moment to restore her composure, then stood up straight, holding the basket firm to her hip. "I… was wondering."

Nick was going to say that they didn't usually behave in such a way, but he did not want to think of himself as a liar. "Carry on," he said, returning to his crossword, coffee and croissant.

And then he set his pen down as he realised what Mary must have initially assumed: that it was _he_ up there with—_Ugh, no, don't even follow that train of thinking_, he thought, shuddering in disgust at the very concept of having sex with a girl who was practically a daughter to him. No wonder Mary had looked so mortified.

He was nearly finished with all three by the time Mark and Bridget wandered downstairs hand in hand, she in her pyjamas, he in his undershirt and trousers, looking happy if a little bleary-eyed. "Well, good morning," he said.

Bridget went to him and pecked his cheek. "Yes, indeed it is."

Mark only grinned as he took a seat; once again Bridget took a seat on his lap, and he wrapped an arm around her waist.

"Shall I bring you breakfast?" Nick said. "I just made fresh coffee."

"Yes, please," said Mark. He looked loathe to stand up; Nick hardly blamed him.

Nick rose and poured them each a cup just as they liked it. He went to get two more small plates for their croissants when he heard Mary's voice:

"Mr Wentworth, have you any more biological washing—"

Mary stopped at the entrance to the kitchen upon noticing that Nick was no longer alone.

"Good morning, Mary!" said Bridget brightly. Just about everything Bridget was doing that morning was done brightly, little wonder. "I'm so pleased to get the chance to introduce you to Mark, my husband. Mark, this is Mary, Uncle Nick's housekeeper."

Mary looked quite uncomfortable. "Mr… Mr Mark, a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise, Mary," Mark said. Nick brought their breakfast to the table.

There was a flash of confusion on Bridget's face. "Mary, I thought today was your day off."

"I… yes, it normally is, but… long weekend in the north. Sister. Well. Laundry calls."

"Mary?" Nick called after her. "The powder you're looking for is in the back of the cupboard out there."

"Yes, right, of course. Sorry to disturb. Ta."

Once Mary had gone, Bridget, after taking off the point of her croissant, said, "She was acting kind of weird. Is she all right?"

Nick raised his eyes to meet Bridget's. "She's doing the laundry."

"But she always does the—"

Nick saw the moment that the realisation dawned across her features.

"Oh," she said in conclusion. She looked downward as if she hoped the earth would swallow her.

"What?" asked Mark, about to sip his coffee.

"She's been upstairs to fetch the laundry she's doing," said Bridget in a whisper, as if Nick didn't possibly know the reason already. "_Upstairs_."

Mark's coffee cup hit the table with a bit of a crash.

"Oh."

Clearly keen to change the subject, Bridget said, "So I beat Nick at chess!"

Mark turned, looking as if she'd just announced she'd won a baking competition. "Bridget, you don't play chess."

"Oh, but she does," said Nick with some amusement. "I taught her. And she's quite good."

Mark stared, agape, until he burst with a laugh. "You let her win."

"I did no such thing."

Mark looked down to Bridget at the same time Nick looked to her, and Nick saw she looked torn. "You didn't?" she asked in a small voice.

"Of course I didn't," he said gruffly. "I start letting children beat me at chess and it's all downhill from there. And Mark," he added, a grin curling the corner of his mouth up. "Have a little faith in your wife, for God's sake."

Bridget beamed. "And Uncle Nick taught me so many new things in the kitchen!"

Mark looked amazed for a split second before he had the decency to control his features. "That's fantastic," he said, rather unconvincingly to Nick's ear. "What else did you two do? Find a cure for cancer? Translate _You Can Heal Your Life_ into Latin and Classical Greek?"

Bridget turned on his lap. "I'm starting to miss you less," she said, sticking her tongue out at Mark.

"You wish," he said, leaning forward to bestow a kiss upon her lips just as her tongue retreated.

"So Nick," he said, pulling her snugly into his arms. "She was a good girl, I wager?"

Two things happened simultaneously: Bridget's eyes widened, and Nick felt his devilish streak flare up. "Well, aside from the incidents in which she set off my car burglar alarm trying to nick it out of the garage, tried to break out of her room in the middle of the night, and stole my phone resulting in its destruction, she was a perfect angel."

There was a pause, then: "Bridget."

She didn't need to see the way his brows had furrowed to know he was not pleased; the abrupt change in his tone, the way his embrace loosened, said it all.

"No harm done," Nick added, still smirking. "After all, I locked her in her room after the first escape attempt, and the phone was destroyed before she could get a call out."

"Uncle Nick," Bridget said between clenched teeth, "you are not helping."

She had a point. If it were possible for smoke to actually come out of a man's ears, it would be doing so at that moment from Mark's.

"Bridget, upstairs," said Mark, pushing her off of his lap.

"Mark?"

"I'll be up there in a minute. And then we'll talk."

She looked absolutely shattered as she left the kitchen for the stairs to the second floor.

"Sending your wife to her room?"

Mark looked to Nick. "I'm too angry right now. I need to calm down and be reasonable before I go upstairs."

"Mark, don't be too stern with her. You clearly suspected she'd try, or else she could have stayed with anyone else."

Mark pinched the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "I suspected, but I'd hoped she'd behave like a reasonable adult."

"Maybe you should have shown her the photo and let her know the extent of the danger she was in. She clearly thought you were being overprotective. Again."

Mark pursed his lips. "I didn't want to scare her. You know that. And after the powder she can't still have thought I was overreacting. She was deliberately trying to put herself in harm's way with an utter disregard for both her safety and my wishes, even though our being apart was equally difficult for me."

"While it is a testament to her love for you," Nick said, "it is extremely maddening." He went over to Mark, placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "To help nip these things in the bud, she either needs to know the full truth of these things to see the reality of your worry, or you have to expect her to act as if you're being unreasonably strict."

Whatever progress Mark may have made in calming down seemed to be roundly undone by Nick's well-meant statement. "There's another option, though, one neither you nor she ever considers: trusting me, my instincts, without my having to explain every minute detail. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to have a talk with my wife."

………

With each step towards the bedroom where Bridget was waiting for him, Mark felt like he was outside of his own body, knowing he was still too angry to talk but unable to pull back the reins to stop himself. How dare she try not once but three times to defy his very explicit instructions! He got into the room and saw her standing there, pacing, waiting for him.

She stopped as he entered the room and closed the door. She crossed her arms over her chest and said, "Could you maybe spare me the lecture? I've already gotten it enough times from your uncle."

"It never seems to sink in, though, does it?" he snapped in return. "When I ask you to stay in hiding, lay low, don't call me, don't bloody come near me for your own safety, there is no giant 'unless you get really worried about me' clause attached to it."

"So you can do what you like to keep me safe, but I can't do what I need to do to make sure you're safe?"

"My safety was not in question!" he said, striding up to her.

"And if that powder had been something really dangerous?"

"That is beside the point!"

"How?" she demanded. "If it had been real, your involvement in the case would be over and I would have been safe!"

"The point is that you didn't wait to get more information. You just on impulse decided to leave the safety of Nick's house without thinking it might be a trap designed to bring you back to London." His gaze bore into hers. "That's what's so reckless and dangerous about your behaviour—you want what you want and you don't stop to think of the consequences. You don't seem to understand that."

It killed him to speak so harshly to her, but one of these days that spontaneity he loved so much in her would get her into a situation she couldn't back out of. He was going to do whatever it took to prevent that situation from ever happening.

"I did know the consequences," she retorted, "and I chose to disregard them anyway. That's what _you_ don't seem to understand."

The surge of frustration and anger in Mark overwhelmed him; he grabbed her upper arm and pulled her up to him.

"Hey!" she cried. "What do you think you're doing?"

The cords in his neck were taut, his brows furrowed. "Making you understand."

"Mark—"

"You don't listen to reason and you're as stubborn as a child," he interrupted, his teeth gritted, "so maybe we'll get somewhere with _this_." He then drew his arm back to smack her on the arse with a resounding _crack_, then let go of her.

She looked stunned, backing away from him. He saw tears spill down onto her cheeks.

"Have I made myself clear?" he said.

She said nothing at first, only stood there staring at him, then said, wiping away the wetness from beneath her eyes, "I can't _believe_…"

"I'd do it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping you safe."

She didn't say anything in response. It pained him to see her look so upset, even if she did need the lesson to be learned. His voice softened when he spoke again:

"Have I adequately demonstrated I would do _anything_ to ensure your safety—even at my own expense?"

Her brow softened as she stood there, looking up at him like a lost little girl, her blue eyes wide and glossy. He continued.

"Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to have to send you away when the one thing in the world I could have used the most was to have you by my side for strength? Did you know the only thing keeping me from going absolutely mental was knowing you were safe and well cared for here with Nick?"

She cast her gaze downward.

He went up close to her again, enfolding her in his arms, then pulled her to sit across his lap on the bed, holding her tightly to him. He pressed light kisses into her hair and ran his hand over her bottom lovingly.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'll… work on my impulse control."

He cupped her cheek with his palm then drew her face up in order to kiss her.

"Forgive my selfishness," he said softly. "There isn't anything I wouldn't do to keep you with me for a long time to come."

She actually smiled.

"There is one other thing I need you to do for me."

"What?"

"You owe Nick an apology. Several, as a matter of fact."

She pursed her lips. "He knows I'm sorry."

"He might like to hear it, just the same."

She sighed. "Of course I'll apologise. It'd be barbaric of me not to." She tightened her arms around him, buried her face into his shirt. "Later."

"How about now?" suggested Mark, then with a smile, added, "Nick could probably use the reassurance that he didn't in fact send us running for divorce court."

………

Nick cleaned up the kitchen after breakfast; it was something he tended to do when he was fussed. He hadn't intended on causing a row between the two of them, especially after having such an evidently happy reunion. Surely Mark expected some rebellion from her—after all, Nick certainly had. It was part of who she was.

He realised he'd cleaned the counter three times without conscious thought.

When he saw Mark leading Bridget into the kitchen by the hand, he set down the bottle of kitchen cleaner, and pointedly watched them approach. "Are we finished smacking the naughty child?" he asked, keeping a level of amusement in his voice that he didn't really feel to mask his worry and guilt, especially when he saw how puffy and irritated her eyes looked.

Mark's reaction to his jest—blinking repeatedly as if caught off guard—coupled with the fact that Bridget actually looked like a chastised child made him wonder exactly how accurate his comment about a smack had been.

"Nick," said Bridget at last, "I wanted to apologise for being so troublesome while I was staying here. You were so good to take me in on such short notice, cook for me, keep me company… you tried so hard to distract me from the trouble in London, and I truly appreciate it."

She let go of Mark's hand and went to Nick, giving him a big kiss on the cheek before hugging him very tightly. His arms came up to return the hug, and he thought wistfully just how much he would miss her routine pecks-to-the-cheek.

Nick cleared his throat. "Heading back to town soon?" he asked, drawing away from his niece and looking to Mark.

Dammit, Mark knew the level of sentimentality he was feeling; Nick could tell by the way he was smirking. "After a shower and maybe lunch."

"No!" interjected Bridget, her hand absently running over her bottom. _Ha_, Nick thought. "I have an errand to do before we go back to London, now that I can actually leave the house."

Nick knew his surprise was as obvious as Mark's. "Errand?" asked Mark.

"Hm, yes." She grinned. "It's a woman thing."

That was enough for Nick.

Mark seemed to concur. "Let's get showered, shall we?"

………

"You do know where you're going?"

She stopped in the middle of applying her mascara to give him a pursed-lips look. "Yes, Mark. I'll be absolutely fine."

"You're familiar with Cambridge? I could show you exactly—"

"Mark," she said, finishing the application. "'Woman thing.'"

Mark smiled. He knew not every errand dubbed 'a woman thing' turned out to actually be so, but he didn't want to take his chances.

"Maybe it's just selfish," he said, "but I don't want to let you out of my sight."

She set down the tube of mascara and came over to where he was standing to embrace him. "We'll eat lunch, I'll go out, I'll come back. No time at all will pass."

"If you insist," he said, "though I'm calling you a taxi."

"What? Can't I just drive your car?"

"The taxi will know exactly where it's going," he said, deftly avoiding mentioning he was afraid for both her and his car in a city she didn't know.

She sighed. "I'm not going to break your car or something."

"Taxi… or not at all."

She sighed again. He knew that sigh—it was the sigh of surrender. "Let's go eat."

They went downstairs to find that Nick was not in the kitchen. There was a door sitting ajar on the way out to the garage, one he hadn't noticed before, and found that it led into a small shady patio in the backyard.

"Just in time," said Nick as they appeared. "Have a nice cold pasta salad for you. Cherry lemonade to drink."

Mark noticed a small ashtray with Nick's lit cigarette in it; he cast his eyes aside accusingly to Bridget.

"I won't lie and say to you we didn't come out here to smoke on occasion," said Nick, not looking up from doling out bowlfuls of pasta salad. That man had eyes on the back, sides and top of his head, Mark would swear to it. "Only at night though. I thought it acceptable. And before you say a word, I came up with that idea all on my own, no trickery or coercion on the part of the prisoner." Nick turned and winked at Bridget.

Bridget grinned smugly. Mark thought it was probably dangerous to leave them alone to their devices for too long.

They took seats at the table; he glanced to her with a smile as she did the same to him. He felt badly about the outburst earlier, though hadn't been lying when he said he'd do it again for her safety. In any case, he would have plenty of time to make it up to her in the next couple of weeks.

They ate in amicable silence—Bridget especially seemed to like the refreshing lemonade and pasta salad—until Nick spoke up: "I will say things will be dreadfully quiet without you here, child."

Bridget looked up, smiling tenderly. "I'll miss you too, even if you did keep me under lock and key."

"Was for your own good," he said in a jovial grumble, eating another bite.

"You won't be too lonely, though, will you? You've got your Rose," said Bridget with a wink, stirring up the remains of her pasta.

Mark stared at Bridget. Last he'd heard, Nick was occasionally seeing Bridget's boss. "Rose? Who's—?"

"Nothing, no one," said Nick quickly; Mark swore he coloured at the mere mention by Bridget of her name, let alone hinting to their relations. With the trace of a smirk playing on his lips, though, he added, "She is only a 'just for now' girl."

At hearing Nick's usage of Bridget's dating war command terminology, Mark almost choked on his lunch before he started laughing. "I see," he managed at last. Bridget reached over and patted him on the back, then left her hand there as she finished eating.

It was marvellous to know that it had not been all scowling looks, brusque commands, and defiant stances during her stay; it sounded to him like they had fun for the majority of their time together despite the circumstance. That pleased Mark to no end.

As he observed Nick looking at Bridget, it occurred to him that it almost was as if Nick seemed sorry to see Bridget go. He'd never thought Nick could be so attached to one of his partners—he'd certainly had not shown any indication of even remotely liking his previous girlfriends, and _definitely_ not his previous wife—as to let her actually beat him at chess.

"So can you call that… taxi for me?" Bridget asked.

"Oh, yes, of course. Where's your telephone directory?" Mark asked Nick.

"Near the telephone in the kitchen… but why don't you just let Bridget drive?"

Bridget looked from Nick to Mark smugly.

"Because she insists on going alone, she has no familiarity with the town, and…"

"Oh, I could give her directions—"

"No," said Bridget emphatically. "It's a surprise."

"I thought you said it was a 'woman thing'," Nick said bemusedly.

She looked between the two men, obviously frustrated that they each had such a good memory. "Just call a taxi for me."

………

"What do you suppose that child is up to?"

Mark seemed to be caught off guard by Nick's question as he re-emerged onto the back patio, having seen Bridget off in her taxi.

"I haven't the faintest idea," replied Mark, and as best as Nick could tell, it was sincere. Mark sat again, took another drink of his lemonade.

"I'm surprised you let her go off alone," said Nick, taking another cigarette out of the packet and lighting up. "After nearly two weeks' separation, I'd've thought you'd be stuck together like glue."

He watched Mark smile subtly.

"Of course," he continued, "she didn't look at all happy when the two of you returned to the kitchen after your argument." Mark looked a little uncomfortable. Nick sallied forth. "The talking-to was understandable, but as I'd already given her quite a lecture after each escape attempt, the rest—" He mimed swiping his hand through the air as if swatting a tennis ball with a racquet. "—was probably not necessary."

Mark gawked. "How the hell—" he began, then stopped suddenly.

Nick made a dismissive sound. "Come on, boy. I'm not an idiot."

Mark flushed with embarrassment and said hotly, "It's not as if your _lectures_ did any good, since she tried to escape three times." He sighed, then after a moment said exasperatedly, "She's just so bloody headstrong. It frustrates the hell out of me at times. And when reason doesn't get through—"

"I know, Mark; I know. There's no one around you who isn't convinced of your utter devotion to that girl." He flicked ash into the ashtray. "I truly believe you would lay your life down for hers."

Mark did not respond to that.

"She was a relatively good child until reading about the powder in the paper—"

"I told you to keep her away from the news," interrupted Mark darkly.

"She fished the paper out of the trash bin, for God's sake," Nick said, raising his voice. "If you hadn't been so damned determined to keep her sheltered from the truth of what had happened, she wouldn't have tried to escape at all." Nick didn't really believe that was true, but it allowed him to make a very strong point. "You keep forgetting that she'd be equally willing to lay down her life for yours."

Mark looked down abashedly.

"But, well, that's in the past," said Nick, taking one last draw, then stubbing out the cigarette as he exhaled. "You won't make that mistake again, I think."

Nick didn't believe that was true, either, but it didn't hurt to let Mark know he disapproved of this pattern of non-disclosure by Mark to his wife.

Mark was silent for a few more minutes, staring at the ashtray. "Speaking of mistakes," he said at last, "I would appreciate it if you did not encourage Bridget's smoking."

"If you mean I'm forcing fags into her mouth and lighting them, that's not happening."

"That isn't what I'm talking about. Rewarding her with free-rein smoking on the patio is what I'm talking about."

"I see. So, I am supposed to go out and smoke on the patio and torture her by not letting her join me," he said. "She's a grown woman, Mark. You can't control everything she does."

"I don't—" he began indignantly.

"Oh, but you try," cut in Nick, giving him a piercing gaze, "don't deny it." In a slightly more empathetic tone, he added, "She is more than aware that you don't like her smoking, believe me, and there were times she declined. But for God's sake, if you really love her as she is, then accept there are some things about her you'll never be able to change." He reached over and patted Mark's shoulder in a genial way, wanting to end the tension between them. "You've done very well for yourself with her, Mark."

"'Don't bugger it up,' right?" Mark said ruefully. Nick would never admit to having thought that very thing.

"So far, so good," said Nick with a smile. "After all, you talked her into marrying you, didn't you?"

That got Mark to smiling too. All was well again.

Nick rose from the table. "Care for a shot of scotch? You've been through a lot these past two weeks." _Especially in the last few hours_, he added in thought only.

Mark nodded. "In fact, make it a double."

………

That was weird.

Laden with bags from her shopping excursion, she knocked on the door again, yet no one came to answer. She tried the bell. Still no answer. She stepped back, looked over the house, panicking for a moment and thinking maybe she had come to the wrong house, but no, that was definitely Mark's car in the drive.

She saw the garden gate, and decided to circle round to the back patio. It could well have been that the men were still out of doors.

When she got to the patio, she smiled broadly at the sight she was met with:

Mark and Nick had taken to the patio recliners, and both had fallen fast to sleep, Nick with a book on his chest, Mark with his empty tumbler still in his hand. She suspected scotch was involved. It was an adorable sight.

However, she had presents to hand out. She dropped the heavier of the two bags and when it landed with a thud, both of them startled awake, looking momentarily anxious.

"Hi," she said.

Mark sat up, blinking drowsily. "Bridget, you're back already," he said, rubbing his eyes.

"'Already'?" she scoffed. "I've been gone three hours."

Nick glanced to his wristwatch. "So you have."

Mark looked shocked. "We've been sleeping that long?"

"Not we," said Nick. "You had your scotch and fell asleep straightaway; I read for a bit before I drifted off."

"Sleep discussions later," said Bridget impatiently, bringing her bags over with her to sit on the edge of Mark's chair. "I have things for you." She dug into one bag, pulling out her present for Mark. "Here."

"What's this?" He looked the box over; apparently the writing on the box proclaiming it to be heather grey writing paper with a Greek key pattern around the edge and matching envelopes was beyond his comprehension.

"I wanted to encourage your writing to me," she said. "That letter of yours was lovely. It really got me through the darkest hours of our time apart."

Mark smiled. "I will. Thank you." He sat up, leaned forward to kiss her.

"Enough with the cooing," said Nick. "I have dinner to make, and it's getting later by the second."

"Ah," said Bridget, beaming at the thought of giving him her present. "This is to thank you for everything, and to apologise again for all of the times I was a little difficult."

He snorted a laugh. "'A little.' Right."

She handed him the bag, plain brown by request, and watched for the reaction as he looked into it.

It was about what she expected.

"You didn't." He raised his steel blue-grey eyes to look at her, unable to hide the emotion in his eyes. He pulled out the box and read up on the highlights of his new phone.

"To replace the pre-war model that I—er, that was broken. It even does pictures and video," offered Bridget. "And I can send you little videos from mine to give you a good night kiss on the cheek. You'll have to take it to get activated…"

He looked to her again, blinking rapidly. Mark came by the habit honestly. "Well. Thank you, Bridget."

She was amazed. No retort on how she owed him a phone anyway? He must have been deeply touched.

She got to her feet to go over and give him a kiss on the cheek. "You're welcome."

"So," said Mark. "What else did you buy?"

"Oh," she said, having momentarily forgotten about her other purchases, and blushing a bit. "Well, something for later—" A babydoll nightie, to be precise, but she didn't want to say so in front of Nick. "—plus necessities for the ride back."

"Necessities?" Mark grabbed one of the bags and pulled out a box of Cadbury Milk Tray, then a copy of _Hello!_, then started to laugh.

Nick chuckled too. "How you can read that trash is beyond me…"

"Oh, pipe down and go make dinner," she teased.

"Actually, I had an idea," said Nick.

"What? Making me cook?"

"No. In honour of your departure tonight: pizza delivery."

Mark laughed again.

She felt her eyes go wide. "No arguments from me." _Just wondering who's kidnapped Nick and replaced him with a pod person_, she thought.

"And maybe while we're waiting," Mark said, "you can show off your chess prowess."

The condescending way in which he said it made her anxious to get down to playing.

………

Inconceivable.

He sat there and stared at the chess board, at her king peering down over his fallen one, and he struggled to think of if he had been too easy on her, had let down his guard in his doubt of her ability. He had not.

"And pizza's not even here yet!" she beamed.

"I told you," said Nick drolly. The doorbell rang and he rose to get it. "Perhaps a rematch after dinner?"

"Yes… er, no," Mark said, correcting quickly. "We need to get back to London."

"Sure we can't stay another night?" said Bridget.

"I'm sure," said Mark. In a low voice he said, "I have a surprise for you, too."

He loved watching the way her whole face lit up, her blue eyes infused with joy and promise. "Surprise for me?"

He nodded.

"What?"

He clucked his tongue. "Bridget. It's a surprise."

"Oh, please tell me. Pleeeeeeease." She got up from her chair and hung around his neck, kissing his face randomly. "Tell me please, please, please?"

He knew he shouldn't have said anything.

Nick came in with the pizza at the tail end of her pleas. "For the love of God," said Nick, "tell her already. I can't take it if she's like this through dinner."

"Nick," said Mark sternly. "Bridget. Sit down and eat your pizza."

She looked pouty and adorable as she ate through her first slice in sullen silence.

He couldn't bear it any longer.

"I think pizza's your favourite takeaway, isn't it, darling?"

She shrugged sulkily, taking another piece. Nick looked on, seeming to know instinctively that this conversation would have a payoff.

"Yes, yes. I think it is. Me, I'm partial to Thai or Chinese. Occasionally… well, what do you think of Greek food, Bridget?"

She shrugged again.

"Hm, that's a shame, since that's all we'll have available to us for two weeks."

Her eyes flashed up, mid-chew. "What?" she asked, a bit of pizza falling from her mouth.

"Unless you don't want to leave for Greece morning after next."

"Gree—?" she said, coughing, then swallowing. "_Greece?_" she repeated.

Mark nodded.

"What are you trying to do, kill your wife?" commented Nick with a smirk.

Mark explained, "I figured we might need a little getaway after this was all over, so amidst protecting your safety, avoiding death by powdered sugar, and bringing this difficult case to conclusion, I booked us a holiday."

She flung her pizza back down onto the plate, ran over to him, threw herself into his lap, embraced him, and gave him a big kiss.

"If I'd known about the trip," said Bridget, "I'd've been a complete angel the whole time."

"Ah," said Nick. "That's the secret to get her to behave. Bribery."

………

_Epilogue_

The new phone from Bridget, in Nick's possession for one week now, made a strange sound it had never made before. He stared at it sitting on his desk, furrowed his brow as it did it again.

Curious, he picked it up and touched the screen to wake it. There was a flashing alert. He had no idea what to make of it, so on instinct, he touched the screen.

He was met with a bright blue rippling surface—the Aegean Sea, as it turned out, as the camera then moved to light on Bridget, looking adorable in a bathing suit with a colourful piece of cloth tied around her waist and knotted at her hip as a makeshift skirt. Her blonde hair shone in the bright sunlight; her blue eyes were protectively hidden behind her sunglasses.

"Hallo, Uncle Nick!" she said, waving. "Just wanted to let you know we're having a lovely time here in… uh, where are we again?"

Then, Mark's voice, close to the phone: "Skopelos."

"Ah, yes, where he said. Everyone's friendly, the food is indeed amazing, though very fishy, but oh. Peaceful and very romantic." She grinned. "I hope you're well. We miss you, and we'll see you soon. Until then…" She puckered up her lips, and brought her hand up to blow him a kiss. "Bye!"

She waved some more and then the video ended.

He switched off the phone and set it down, smiling wistfully.

He decided then and there he didn't want to be on his own that night. The question though was who to call.

_To hell with it_, he thought, dialling the number of the woman he wanted to see rather than the one who was closer and more convenient. _I'm up for a drive to London if she's up for the visit._

_The end._


End file.
